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BY 




WILLIAM G. HENRY 











Boston: De Wolfe, Fiske & Go. 


Watered at the Post Office, Boston, 
second-class matter. 


THAT DREADFUL BOY. 

Ax Amp:,rican Novel 

By KATE TANNATT WOODS. 


I2mo, doth, 320 pages on fine laid paper, neatly and handsomely hound. 
PRICE, 81.00. 


At the beginning of this story a young married couple becomes a 
couple no longer, but a trio — the new' comer being the “dreadful boy,” 
the hero of the talc. No nobler or more manly boy ever existed thap 
“S. C.” or “Dick,” and no sweeter type of a true mother than Bessie 
Sylvester. The boy is one of those most exasperating youngsters, get- 
ting into the most astonishing and dreadful mischief, yet without malice 
or the slightest desire to inflict pain or make trouble." On the contrary, 
he is so kind hearted that he desires to befriend every suffering animal 
or person. Among the very amusing incidents of his childhood was one 
where he bought the baby sister of a little playfellow whose mother 
already' had a houseful. After paying all the money he had for her he 
took the baby home, gave her her supper, and tucked her up in his own 
little bed. He had always been taught to give an equal amount for 
whatever he received; he could not understand whv, having done this, as 
he thought, the baby sister should be taken from" him and sent home. ■■ 
A pig which his grandfather gave him he nobly transfers to a poor widow ’ 
who had just lost her pig, getting the animal into her pen by night with 
the help of another boy, they being at first mistaken for burglars by the 
widow. Another time when he and a playmate had gotten into mischief 
in the carriage-house, Dick locked the man into the harness closet 
because he was cross* and refused to let him out because “he wouldn’t 
promise to be good.” Me is very brave, with a stoical disregard of pain ‘ 
His exploit with the span of horses, which he drives at a wild speed till 
his little hands are bleeding, his father riding in terrified pursuit is 
related in quite a thrilling way. No one who has the responsibility of the 
training of children, can read this book without being better fitted for the 
work. 


.. r h i e a u-, h A r * raced the -hfe of a bright and mercurial little fellow from the cradle.' 

through childhood ifp to manhood, showing how, despite the overflow of vi alitv that 
kept him in hot water a great deal, of the time, he had the right stuff in him, and.came 
out eventually a; tin ton. I he b6ok is for grown readers, and contains much food for 
thought, asid from its interest as a story. It is brought out in handsome form ” — Bo*, 
ton Brans , r-pt. 

“In Mr.. Wood’s charm ing story of “That Dreadful Bov,” it is easy to detect th® 

r" a""* Vi Ve T d - a . d - a • H '! t ' r ar K»nient against corporal punishment, 
mother should read tt, and take courage; and all will thank the authoi 
for her beautiful picture of home life. ’ — A . G. C. 

As an interesting and fascinating story, merely, this vo’ume will be very popular with 
the average reading public: but we d.-rect a far higher purpose, on the authors part 

' were her iliief object, .h. h, s made it an emi.' 


publisher. 0 by ab 1,ooksellers ’ or sent P ost P»id on receipt of price by the 


DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO., 365 Washington St., Boston, Mass. 


gilbert thorndyke 


OR 


A MAN OF HIS WORD 


by 

WILLIAM G. HENRY 





/S^SSS^--, 

^ASWIN®' 

BOSTON 

DE WOLFE, FISKE & CO. 


Copyright, 1890, 

By De Wolfe, Fiske & Co. 


C. J. PETERS & SON, 
Typographers and Electrotypers, 
145 High Street, Boston. 


V 


PROLOGUE. 


'J'TIE words in a prologue are usually radiant 
with hope and gladness ; this will be one 
of privilege and sorrow. 

The physician has just left my suite of apart- 
ments on Columbus Avenue in the city of Bos- 
ton. For weeks he has skilfully evaded the 
truth, but at last I have succeeded in forcing it 
from him. 

I have a valvular disease of the heart, and 
know now that I must soon die. How soon, I 
cannot tell. Perhaps in a few days ; at the 
longest, in a few weeks. Well ! Let it be so. 
The pain, which has been very great during the 
last few days, has disappeared, and a feeling 
of weakness has succeeded it, the meaning of 
which 1 cannot mistake. 


3 


4 


PROLOGUE. 


As the pain disappeared, so all fear of 
death accompanied it, and I feel now only 
as if I were going to sink into the arms of 
perfect rest, contented and happy as the child 
that is laid to sleep in its cradle. All the 
troubles, all the cares, and all the perplexities 
which have tormented me during a lifetime 
that seems so short to me now, as I look 
back upon it, are now ended ; the clouds have 
passed away ; the star of eternal hope shines 
clear and bright on the distant horizon, that 
seems so far to mortals and yet is so near 
to me. 

And is this the end of it all, a brief time of 
worry, a few uneasy, restless periods that we 
call years, and then that great angel Death ? 
Many times I have been near to him, and many 
a friend has he embraced at my side, and so 
now it is my turn at last. The atmosphere 
will close around the space that I have occu- 


PROLOGUE. 


5 


pied, and my place will know me no more, for 
how soon we are blotted out and forgotten ; 
then truly I shall be dead. Thus is it with 
us all. Stop and think of the millions upon 
millions that have lain as I have and thought 
the same thoughts ; thousands and thousands 
of years ago they must have thought them, 
and for thousands and thousands of years to 
come they will think the same ones. 

Well, it is not a good world ; no one can say 
it is, unless it is those who are blinded to the 
great facts. For how can one expect a world 
to be a good one in which money is the great 
power ? I have often wondered, not why it is 
so bad, but why it is so good. Now that I 
have lived, I am not sorry, but I should not 
wish to live again. 

Before I pass through the open gate to the 
grand and glorious life beyond, where we 
shall ascend step by step, onward and upward 


6 


PROLOGUE. 


through the various changes to that perfection 
by which we are entitled to sit by our Maker, 
I desire to relate a tale, not one of my own 
history, but of another, a friend who is very 
near to me. 

It, perhaps, will help to while away some 
weary hours of pain and suffering ; if it does, 
I shall lose nothing by writing it. I do not 
expect it will be read much ; it does not matter. 

This story is of a man, I have given him here 
the name of Gilbert Thorndyke, whose early life 
was unfortunate and unhappy, full of sorrow 
and trouble. He may have had his faults, but 
I have excuses to offer for him ; the principal 
ones are, the misfortune to lose his mother 
early in life, and the weakness of mankind. If 
these find no charity in your heart for him, 
you are either too good for him or he is too 
human for you. Do not read this story. 
Enough others will. 


CONTENTS. 


CHAPTER PAGE 

I. The Counterfeiter 9 

II. In Business 19 

III. The Dexter Mansion 24 

IV. Is it Fate? 38 

V. Richard Arkwright 48 

VI. The Wounded Man 63 

VII. The Discussion 69 

VIII. Trouble Brewing 79 

IX. A Counterfeiter’s Home 88 

X. Despair 94 

XI. In the Library no 

XII. The Package from Gilbert 114 

XIII. Gilbert’s Past Life 119 

XIV. Monte Carlo 140 

XV. The Strange Beggar 152 

XVI. The Beggar’s Story 159 

XVII. Fortune’s Wheel turns strangely . . 170 

XVIII. The False Wife 176 

XIX. Homeward Bound 181 

XX. Conclusion . 193 

Epilogue 198 


7 



























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41 

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GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER I. 


THE COUNTERFEITER. 


gOME years ago, how many it matters not, 
although, if necessary, the exact date could 
easily be named, not far from the Old State 
House (a building devoted to history and 
offices) in Boston, down a street chiefly re- 
markable for its crookedness, three men sat 
eating their suppers in a tenement house. 
The room in which they were seated was 
evidently used as a kitchen and dining-room 
together. In appearance, it was very different 
from so many of those rooms used for such 
purposes, that to most of our readers are so 
familiar. No splendidly carved and ornamented 
sideboard was there, glittering with its silver- 
ware and cut glass. No handsomely framed 
9 


IO 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


pictures were on the walls. No richly woven 
rugs or carpets covered the floor. No oaken 
table spread with its snowy linen or tempting 
viands. It was simply enough furnished to 
suit even the most economical. A small, 
cracked stove, as innocent of blacking as the 
paws of a polar bear ; a square pine table, 
and few chairs of the same wood, completed 
about all the furniture of the room. The room 
was lighted by a couple of kerosene lamps, one 
being suspended in a bracket on the wall, near 
the door ; the other was in the centre of the 
table, by the miserable light of which they 
were eating. Their supper was not one an 
epicure would select from a dainty menu. It 
consisted of bread, a large dish of cold baked 
beans, and a pitcher of beer, the last of which 
was seemingly more to their taste, judging 
from the rapid way its contents disappeared. 
From the supper, then, we proceed naturally to 
the partakers. 

Now, the three men in question were by no 
means the sort of people that a wealthy mer- 


THE COUNTERFEITER. 


1 1 


chant would choose as partners in business, or 
a respectable minister of the gospel be likely 
to select for intimate friends ; nor could they, 
in any light, be regarded, strictly speaking, as 
desirable acquaintances. Still, they were “ men 
and brothers,” and, had they believed in any 
religion at all, would probably have been Chris- 
tians. The one who was apparently the leader 
of this trio we will describe first. One could 
see. at a glance that he was far superior to 
his companions in points of intelligence and 
dress. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and 
deep-chested. His features were good and 
regular, the most noticeable feature being his 
chin, which was very square, denoting great 
determination. He was clean shaven, neatly 
but not richly dressed, and, taken altogether, 
was rather attractive than repulsive looking. 
His name was Joe Greenfield. His former 
occupation had been that of a circus performer, 
but at present he was entering on a more profit- 
able but not quite as creditable a business. 

The personage to his right was a small, thin 


12 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


man, with small, bluish eyes, reddish hair, and 
a nose like the beak of a parrot. His dress 
was somewhat peculiar, — an old stiff hat with 
the crown about an inch high ; a black coat of 
our grandfathers’ fashion which showed strong 
signs of having been brushed to death in its 
youth. The pants were a threadbare old corpse 
of a pair, of a faded blue ; his shoes were split 
open on the sides. Taken all together, he 
would have attracted considerable attention 
at a fashionable dance. 

He might have been a millionnaire in dis- 
guise, but if he was the disguise was perfect. 

He swallowed his supper in a stealthy, avari- 
cious manner, as if to make sure of his share, 
seeming meantime to be eying his compan- 
ions with a timid, suspicious air. He will be 
known in this story as Tom Knifton. 

The one to the left of Greenfield styled him- 
self James Hobson, otherwise known as Crooked 
Jim, an appellation given to him on account of 
the crooked ways he used to earn his liveli- 
hood ; was a medium-sized man, with dark, 


THE COUNTERFEITER. 


13 


curling hair, a round, good-natured face, very 
black eyes, and a costume consisting of a short 
blue coat, a pair of checkered pantaloons, and 
a fancy vest. He had on new and shining 
shoes, duplicates of which may be had any 
day for the sum of two dollars and fifty cents 
on Essex Street. He was, in his own estima- 
tion, “ quite a swell.” 

The men ate their meal in silence. When 
they had finished, Greenfield shoved back his 
chair, and, drawing his pipe from out his 
pocket, proceeded to fill and light it, when, 
suddenly turning towards Tom, he asked, 
.“Well, Tom, how are you making it?” 

“ Nothing doing,” answered the man, in a 
whining voice. 

“ I’ll tell you what, Jim,” fixing his keen 
eye on Tom, “if he ain’t lying, he’s pretty 
near it. Why don’t he look a pal in the eye ? ” 

“Because,” answered Jim, “the truth ain’t 
in him, and never was, for he’s the only son 
of the man who told a lie the first words he ever 
spoke, and never spoke another afterwards.” 


14 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ You needn’t make me the butt of your 
stupid jokes,” muttered Tom, looking angrily 
at Jim, and appealingly towards the leader. 

“Oh, that’s all right. Tell us now, on the 
square, what you have been doing to-day,” 
said Jim. 

“ Well,” replied Tom, who, under the eye 
of Joe, was like a bird magnetized by a ser- 
pent, “I got these,” and he reluctantly drew 
from his inside coat pocket several silver 
spoons, which he held up to the gaze of the 
other two men. 

“ How did you come by those ? ” 

“ I sneaked into the kitchen of a house at 
the South End and swiped them.” 

“ What are you going to do with them ? ” 

“Put them in hoc at Moses’s,” answered 
the man. 

“ I don’t think much of your game. I have 
something now on the wheel that will pay you 
big money. Are you in it with me? What 
do you say ? ” 

“You surely don’t think of — of — ” 


THE COUNTERFEITER. 


15 

“Of the old business again ?” broke in Jim. 

“No, no,” said Joe. “Something better; 
more money, more gentlemanly. I’ve never 
been behind the bars yet, and got no desire 
to be. I admit that I have helped crack 
some cribs in times gone by, but all that’s 
ended. I am getting pretty tired of risking 
my liberty, and perhaps my life, for a few 
ducats ; so I think, while there is. time, I will 
turn over a new leaf, and become a speculator. 
That’s what I intend to do, and want you both 
to do the same, at once.” 

“ Speculate ! ” squeaked Tom. 

“ Speculate?” queried the Crooked man, with 
equal surprise. 

“ Yes, speculate,” reiterated the ex-circus 
performer and house-breaker. 

“ Now, listen, you, Jim, and you, Tom ! I 
am going to take you both into the scheme ; 
but there must be no back down, for, if either 
of you are caught and squeal, you will be shot 
even if it has to be done in the court-room. 
You are dealing with two men who mean busi- 


1 6 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

ness, and who will not overlook any nonsense. 
You know me ! ” 

“Who is the other? Your friend?” asked 
Jim suspiciously. 

“ Yes, who is he ? ” echoed Tom. 

“ A good one, and don’t you forget it ; a 
thoroughbred. He is coming here to-night, 
soon. Use him well, for he does not relish 
jokes,” said Joe grimly. 

“ But we want to know who he is ! ” again 
demanded Jim. 

“ Never mind his name. He is the — Mas- 
ter!” replied Joe. 

“ The devil ! ” exclaimed Jim, who seemed 
very much impressed by the title. 

“ Well ! if not, he must be a near relative,” 
muttered the leader. 

As he finished speaking, steps were heard 
leading to the floor they occupied. 

“ He’s coming now. Be careful.” 

At the same time a knock, sharp and clear, 
was given on the door, and Joe hastily arose 
and unlocked it, admitting a man dressed 


THE COUNTERFEITER. 


17 


entirely in black. He would have had an 
almost ministerial appearance had it not been 
for a large and brilliant diamond that glistened 
in his immaculate shirt front. His face was 
pale — so pale that its pallor was almost start- 
ling ; prominent features, the upper lip shaded 
by a silken mustache. His hair was cut short, 
and was black as night ; his eyes ; such eyes ! 
Large, black, intensely black, with a strange 
gleam in their depths, so full of strength and 
power that they gave Joe’s companions a start 
of dread and fear. 

“ Good-evening, Mr. Greenfield,” said the 
stranger. 

“ Gentlemen, good-evening. I will drink to 
our future acquaintance ! ” And calmly taking 
a bottle from his hand-bag, the mysterious man, 
at one blow against the edge of the sink, re- 
moved its neck, and as the centre of the 
admiring glances of the three spectators of his 
actions, drank its contents at a single draught. 

“ Have a seat, Mr. — Mr. — ? ” Crooked 
Jim paused. 


i8 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Jones, sir,” said the new-comer briefly, “if 
it is necessary for you to know my name ; ” and 
he looked at Jim with his glittering eyes in a 
manner that made that person think that Joe 
was about right when he called him a relative 
of the Evil One. 

“ Jones ? ” repeated Tom. 

“Yes, Jones,” answered he whom Joe had 
called the Master, sharply, — “it suits me.” 


IN BUSINESS. 


19 


CHAPTER II. 

IN BUSINESS. 

" A.ND now to business,” he resumed. “ Do 
just as I direct, and I will make you all 
rich, but if you are false to me, your lives are 
worthless;” and as if to emphasize what he said, 
put his hand behind him, and drew from his 
hip-pocket a revolver, at which the leader alone 
smiled with cool satisfaction. 

He turned towards Joe. “ Hereafter I shall 
do all the business through you, and you only, 
but all remember that wherever or under 
whatever circumstances we meet, we are 
entire strangers . Do not look or notice me 
at all ; such will be regarded as treachery.” 

“ What is it anyhow ? What must we do ? 
Perhaps I have no use for the biz,” said Jim. 

“ Did you tell them about it ? ” asked Jones 
of Joe. 


20 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ No,” said Joe, “only that you are — the 
Master." 

“ That’s correct ! ” said the stranger, taking 
from a pocket, apparently far down in his coat, 
a large roll of bank bills, which he carefully 
divided into three separate rolls, and with a 
polite bow handed a roll to each one. 

“Now, boys," said he, “take your time ; do 
not hurry ; examine them minutely, keep the 
bad ones, and return me the good ones.” 

“ First, what do you say, Mr. Greenfield ? ” 

“Well,” answered he, “I guess mine are all 
bad.” 

“ What of yours ? ” turning to Jim. 

“ I own to it, I am euchred ; there ain’t a 
bill in my fist I wouldn’t taken from any cove 
any day, yet some of them may be fakes ; but 
I can’t tell, and that’s a fact. I throw up the 
sponge to them.” 

“ These are all good ones I’ve got,” chimed 
in Tom. 

“So far, so good,” said Jones. “ So much 
for the opinions of three as fly men as there 


IN BUSINESS. 


21 


are in this city, for if none of you can tell, who 
can ? 

“ It so happens, Joe, that every bill you have 
got is a genuine one, as good as made. But 
yours,” and here he turned towards Jim, “ out of 
the fifteen you hold, ten are counterfeits ; and 
five are good. In the other lot, that Tom now 
holds, every one was manufactured in my own 
workroom. But enough time has already been 
expended. Now, what do you say to this specu- 
lation ? The terms I offer you are these ; five 
dollars for two, spot cash, and no funny busi- 
ness. Are you in it ? ” 

While talking, the speaker eyed each of the 
men with such a penetrating and determined 
look, that even Joe moved uneasily in his 
chair — even marble statues are occasionally 
shaken on their pedestals — but said nothing. 
The other two followed his example, until Tom 
broke the silence by whimpering, “Ain’t it 
risky ? ” 

“ Of course there is risk to it, you fool. If 
there was not any I would do it all myself,” 


22 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


snapped the unlawful manufacturer. “ Come, 
what ftill the verdict be ? ” 

“ We are in for it,” said Joe, speaking for 
himself and companions. 

“ Good ! Follow my directions, and you will 
be safe. I shall see no one but you, Mr. 
Greenfield, and will want to meet you at least 
once a fortnight, to keep up the supply. To- 
morrow night meet me at the same place as 
before. Remember what I said about not 
recognizing me. Good-night ! ” 

Then making a courteous bow to the leader, 
the mysterious individual withdrew from the 
room without further words, leaving the two 
subordinate rogues in a peculiar condition of 
surprise and uncertainty of mind. 

“Well, what do you think of him ? Ain’t he 
a jim-dandy ? ” exclaimed Joe enthusiastically, 
as soon as the door was fairly closed. 

Every kind of crime has its own peculiar 
horror ; but, to the ignorant rogue, the criminal 
who uses his genius inspires a greater feeling 
of respect and awe than the most adventurous 
thief. 


IN BUSINESS. 


23 


“ Won t we go it when we get rich ? ” sud- 
denly cried Crooked Jim, who saw now open 
before him a future life of ease and wealth. 

“ Ain’t it awful dangerous to do such work ? ” 
suggested Tom in a scared way, feeling some- 
what like a little fly caught in a large spider’s 
web. 

“ Nonsense ! ” said Joe encouragingly, 
“You needn’t begin to take back water. 
Shoving the queer is no great matter, espe- 
cially when you’re well heeled, and have plenty 
of good ones to hand over if there is any kick 
made. You stay here, I suppose, Tom ? 
Where are you going, Jim, to-night ? ” 

“I’ll take a walk up Tremont Row, and see 
if I can’t catch some country jay from Way- 
back, that I can work,” said the worthy 
addressed, in a careless tone. 

“ Look out for yourself, that’s my advice ; ” 
and thus talking, the three intended breakers 
of the law separated, as we also, not unwillingly, 
shall be separated from such bad company, for 
the present, at least. 


24 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER III. 

THE DEXTER MANSION. 

scene of our story is now entirely 



changed. Instead of the shabby attic 
tenement, we will picture to ourselves the 
magnificent house, No. — Beacon Street (that 
street famous all over the civilized world for 
its palatial residences of the aristocracy of the 
capital of Massachusetts). This house, owned 
and occupied by Mr. Amos S. Dexter, was built 
of brick with a brownstone front, with white 
marble steps leading up to the large and hand- 
somely carved black-walnut doors. On each side 
of these steps, with tail in air, staring eyes, and 
open mouth, stood a bronze lion, as though 
he were a sentinel guarding the entrance. 

As to the interior, it contained everything 
desirable to make a home cheerful and beauti- 
ful. Carpets that one seemed to sink into as 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


25 


he walked over them, covered with imported 
rugs of great value. Furniture made of gilt 
and satin by those skilful workmen, the French. 
Rare and expensive statuary of Parian marble. 
Mirrors of the costliest description. Meissonier, 
Guido, Murillo, Correggio paintings could be 
seen on the walls, as well as the works of other 
great masters. But, with all this style of ex- 
aggerated splendor, the furnishings were in 
good taste. 

Such, in short, was the house occupied by 
Mr. Dexter, at the time we write of, one of the 
leading and wealthy merchants of Boston, and 
his invalid wife, and daughter Maude. But 
these were not the only occupants, outside of 
the large retinue of servants ; a cousin of 
Maude’s had for many years made the Dexter 
mansion her home. 

In the early evening of the day subsequent 
to the counterfeiter’s enrolment of his new 
agents, in the handsome drawing-room of the 
Beacon-street residence, a man of about thirty 
years of age was seated engaged in conversa- 


26 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


tion with two young ladies. He was tall, noble- 
looking, and of a stately and imposing appear- 
ance. His hands and feet were small and well 
shaped; his mustache was black, as were his 
large and thoughtful eyes, which were the most 
noticeable features of his face. When not rest- 
ing on the faces of his companions, they seemed 
to be looking backwards into the past ; or, 
possibly, forwards into the future. 

His hair, slightly gray near the temples, 
showed traces of care and trouble, more than 
age. His manners were perfect and displayed 
unmistakable signs of birth and breeding. But 
the most remarkable thing about him was his 
smile, which seemed to light up his whole face, 
and which was singularly frank and winning. 

Dressed in the most perfect and quiet taste, 
his appearance, without being foppish, was one 
of great elegance and chic . He was evidently 
in deep thought. Perhaps a physician might 
have taken him for a professional brother, pon- 
dering over the diagnosis of a difficult disease ; 
a lawyer, for a brother counsellor worrying over 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


27 


a perplexing case to be tried on the following 
day ; a merchant, for a speculator contemplat- 
ing a great speculation. It would have been 
difficult to have guessed. He sat on a divan 
of blue satin, partially facing a young lady of 
some eighteen or twenty years of age, who 
occupied a like position at the other end of 
the divan. 

This young lady was Ida Sherman, cousin to 
Maude, and a favorite niece of Mr. Dexter. As 
she is to play an important part in this narra- 
tive, it might be well to describe her here. 

Truly some friend of Ida had once said that 
her exquisite profile was so pure and noble, 
that it must have been cut by the chisel of a 
god. Her beautiful head sat so proudly upon 
her graceful shoulders, that a sculptor would 
have been delighted to secure her for a model. 
Her blue eyes were as clear as crystals as they 
rested, half covered by their delicate lids, on 
the gentleman’s countenance. She had the 
carriage, the bearing and manners of a young 
queen. Words are weak in attempting to de- 


28 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


scribe the great attractiveness of Ida Sherman’s 
beauty. 

Any man might have been proud of her love, 
and worn it with pride as his brightest jewel. 

Opposite that part of the divan where the 
gentleman sat, Maude Dexter was seated at the 
grand piano, playing one of Mozart’s beautiful 
airs. She looked as if she belonged to the sun 
and summer with her Greek profile, a proudly 
set head, a figure luxuriously moulded. Her 
eyes were large and black, and soft as velvet. 
Her heavy, drooping hair was black also. Her 
lips were full and bright, her complexion clear 
and dark. Such a face as Murillo would have 
loved to paint. 

She had the temperament which generally 
accompanies such physiques as hers — slow, 
careless of trifles, not easily disturbed, and there- 
fore generally acquiescent about small matters, 
but capable, when aroused, of an intensity of love 
or hate or scorn which was invariably carried 
to the extreme. A brilliant, dazzling woman, 
proud and passionate, never to be deterred from 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


29 


anything on which she had fully set her mind. 
She was dressed in white, for the weather had 
been very warm, and white was very becoming 
to her dark, creamy complexion. She wore a 
corsage bouquet of Jacqueminot roses. 

Suddenly she ceased playing, and, turning on 
her chair, remarked, addressing the gentleman, 
“ Is not the heat unusually oppressive to-day ? ” 

“ Extremely so,” answered the gentleman in 
question ; “ I have felt the heat more to-day 
than for a long time.” 

“ I should not be at all surprised if we had 
a storm soon,” said Maude’s cousin. 

“ A storm ! ” said the gentleman. “ I think 
there is no danger of that, for see how brightly 
the sun is shining,” and he looked at Maude 
in such a manner that her face brightened at 
this delicately implied compliment. 

“I cannot help but think,” she said artfully, 
“that the sun would shine brighter but for the 
fear of the coming clouds.” 

“What are clouds but shadows that soon 
pass away ? ” asked the visitor, with another 


30 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


smile so admirably forced that it dispelled, 
for the time, the suspicions that were arising 
within the young lady’s heart. 

But Gilbert Thorndyke, for that was the 
gentleman’s name, having made the effort which 
policy and feeling demanded, soon relaxed into 
his former thoughtfulness ; while Ida, who had 
sat quietly listening to the brief conversation, 
said in a tone of sprightliness, “ Why, one 
would fancy, my dear cousin, that you were 
trying to be sentimental, talking such parables.” 

“ We must talk about something,” said 
Maude, not at all disconcerted by Ida’s remark. 

Gilbert here made an effort to start a new 
subject of conversation, by alluding to the 
dramatic ability of a newly arrived English 
actor, who at that time was attracting con- 
siderable attention in this country ; but in 
vain, so we will leave the young ladies to 
their discussion, and devote ourselves to the 
hero of this narrative. 

Gilbert Thorndyke, at the time of which we 
write, found himself in a very embarrassing 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


31 


position. A few weeks before he had been 
invited to the house on Beacon Street by 
Miss Dexter, whom he had met accidentally 
at a friend’s house one evening. At first he 
had been pleased by the great beauty and 
varied accomplishments of the young lady, 
but was dismayed and annoyed when he per- 
ceived, after a few calls, the extent of the feel- 
ings he had already caused. Gilbert could not 
fail to admire the talents and grace of Maude 
Dexter, and it gratified him to be noticed by 
such a lovely woman ; for all men, no matter 
how philosophical they may be, are pleased 
to become the object of interest to beautiful 
women. 

Well versed in all the peculiarities of the 
feminine nature, he soon saw that she was 
madly in love with him, — a love which he 
well knew he never could reciprocate, and yet 
dared not slight, but at the same time pitied 
and feared it, for it had been drawn as a rope 
across the pathway that barred him from his 
new goal of happiness. This goal was Ida. 


1 


3.2 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


On his first call at the house of Mr. Dexter, 
he saw in Ida Sherman the affinity which his 
whole life had been spent in seeking. In the 
very first glances of her wondering eyes, he 
experienced the soul of beauty that flashed 
forth to meet his own, and already he was 
involved in a kind of intrigue, from which he 
could not recede without seriously wounding 
and offending her whom he had to thank 
for the introduction of his newly-discovered 
idol. 

What a strange thing love is ! How often 
the philosopher has tried to explain or define 
it, but always in vain ! If it is the question 
of harmony between two souls, it naturally 
follows that genuine love is apt to be instan- 
taneous. We love a kind which is, in reality, 
an ideal reflex of our own hearts. Nearness 
to that kind affects us as one harp-string is 
affected by the vibration of another. Hence 
the more perfect the accord, the louder and 
stronger the sympathetic vibration. 

Gilbert believed love to be a pre-existent 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


33 


harmony, therefore that love at the first sight 
was the only real love. 

Gilbert Thorndyke was an unusual man. 
Gifted by nature to a remarkable degree, he 
saw and felt what many more did not. He 
was not what many would call good, yet his 
friends said he was far more tjian good, — he 
was a manly man, truthful and kind, generous 
and brave, always possessing that rare but 
noble trait, gratitude. He had had his faults, 
and serious ones, for his whole life had been 
passed in wild roving from country to country, 
from science to science, and from profession 
to profession, until at last he acknowledged 
no law but his own will, and vice and virtue 
were mere nominal distinctions. Therefore it 
is not surprising to the reader to be told that 
the only religion he had was the worship of 
beauty. If he ever prayed, his prayers were 
the words of entreating love. Familiar with 
the theories of the ancient Hindoo philoso- 
phers, the English, the French, the Greek, the 
German schools of all shades ; equally well 


34 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


versed in material facts and fancies, without 
bias or prejudice, and seeking only for knowl- 
edge and truth, he was as ready to follow 
Berkeley the bishop or Spinoza the Hebrew, 
as August Comte or Baron von Reichenbach ; 
as ready to listen to the inductions from Har- 
ley’s experiments as to the superb doctrines of 
Fichte or the audacious logic of Hegel. He 
was very popular as a writer and a philosopher. 
His vast reading and profound knowledge filled 
his enemies, as well as his friends, with sur- 
prise and admiration. But withal he was a 
man, as well as a scholar. He well knew 
what life was, and what it was to live. He 
had seen and experienced much. He knew 
as well what it was to suffer the pangs of 
poverty as to feed at princely boards. He 
had been an employe as often as an employer. 
Above all, he had ever been true to himself. 
His soul was his own. He would never bend 
to men nor to their opinions. Wherever he 
was, he was the leader, the directing power, 
matter to what he turned his attention, 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


35 


his logical mind would at once grasp the prin- 
cipal facts. Like every true philosopher, he 
had no master and knew no fear. 

Such was Gilbert Thorndyke as a man. As 
a member of society he was an adventurer. 
Fortune after fortune he had squandered, and 
at present was penniless. 

He would often say jokingly, “ There is 
enough money in the world ; when I need 
any I will make it. The world is my bank ; 
I can draw on it at any time, and my check 
will always be accepted.” 

Having thus given the reader a vague idea of 
the central character in the scene I am de- 
scribing, I shall resume the thread of active 
narrative without further digression. The con- 
versation, sustained for some time with little 
interest to any of the parties engaged in 
it, was interrupted by the entrance of a servant 
who wished to speak with Maude on some 
household matters. Maude rose and left the 
room. The moment the door began to close 
upon her form, a sudden change took place in 


36 


GILBERT THOKNDYKE. 


the expression of the faces of both Gilbert and 
Ida. Their eyes were fixed on each other : the 
man admiring the innocent beauty and sweet 
intelligence of his lovely companion ; and the 
girl drinking in with avidity the torrent of 
thought, of intellect, and noble manhood, which 
the gaze of Gilbert poured in a flood -of light 
upon her. Both, being, for the instant, carried 
away into contemplation by that loveliness 
which they found realized in one another, did 
not notice the return of Maude, who stood 
gazing on them pale with anger. Anger first, 
anguish afterwards. But Gilbert was a man 
who had seen too much of this world to be 
taken unprepared while a chance of escape yet 
remained open for him, so in a natural calm 
voice said, — 

“ Miss Dexter, we have a matter to refer to 
you : which do you admire most, dark or light 
complexioned people ? ” 

“ Dark,” promptly responded Maude. 

“ That is not the general rule. People 
usually prefer the opposite,” said Ida. 


THE DEXTER MANSION. 


37 


And so the conversation was continued, until 
Gilbert rose to take his leave, when the look 
he exchanged with Ida was understood. There- 
after, he decided that disguisement of his feel- 
ings was useless. 


38 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER IV. 

IS IT FATE ? 


^[.ILBERT had left the house of the merchant 
prince. It was already growing dusk. He 
soon found himself on Washington Street. 
How strange it is what an attraction a crowded 


thoroughfare has for some people ! All the life 
of Boston seems to concentrate itself on that 
street. 

Gilbert was a man of the world in its truest 
sense. He was a great observer of characters. 
He read faces like books. Every person he 
met was to him more or less of a study, a sub- 
ject of speculation. This habit of observation 
was with him instinctive. However, he had 
progressed considerably down Washington 
Street before any of the passing promenaders 
had sufficiently arrested his attention to cause 
him to give them a second thought, when sud- 
denly three men of unusual appearance came 


IS IT FATE ? 


39 


before him. Other pedestrians on either side 
prevented him from immediately passing the 
three strangers. The most noticeable in appear- 
ance of the three had the air of a sporting man, 
while his tall friend looked like a hotel lounger. 
The third might have been a cheap theatrical 
man. These well-dressed promenaders are no 
new characters to our readers : they were Joe 
Greenfield, Tom Hobson, and Crooked Jim, 
mentioned in our first chapter. 

“ If those fellows,” thought Gilbert, as he 
quietly moved out of the way, “ are not three 
rascals may I never speak to a pretty girl 
again ! ” 

“ Hallo !” cried a voice behind him. “Gil- 
bert, my dear fellow, I am delighted to meet 
you ! ” 

“What, Royal? Royal Hall, you here! 
Where do you come from ? ” 

“ Oh, from Paris.” 

The speaker was a young man of medium 
height ; slender yet graceful figure ; large, 
bright eyes ; fair complexion ; careless, yet 


40 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


elegant dress. He might have been thirty-four 
years of age. In turning to greet this new- 
comer, Gilbert lost sight of the three men. 

“ My dear Royal,” said Gilbert, taking his old 
friend — for such he evidently was — by both 
hands, and regarding him most affectionately, 
“how fortunate it is we have met at this time. 
I have been wishing for some one to confide in, 
and all my friends seem scattered everywhere. 
James Blair is married and moved to California. 
Fred Stinson is dead, and George Andrews has 
an appointment as consul to South America, — 
Venezuela, I think it is, — and the rest are 
everywhere ; so, old boy, you are about the only 
one left.” ^ 

“ I, for my part, know of no one in the world 
I wished more to see. I have much to say 
also, but where can we go and sit down quietly 
by ourselves and talk at our ease ? That last 
rowdy who ran against me nearly dislocated my 
shoulder. Washington Street is too narrow for 
dialogue. Where can we go and rest our- 
selves ? ” 


IS IT FATE ? 


41 


“ Suppose we go down into the Argyle 
Saloon and take some supper. It is as quiet 
and well-conducted a place as any in the city. 
Besides, the landlord is a gentleman.” 

“ The Argyle ! ” said Royal — “ with all my 
heart. The name has a romantic sound which 
I fancy. It is Scotch, and you remember my 
mother was a Scotch lady. By the way, Gil- 
bert, why do you not become a great unknown, 
and astonish the world by some great invention, 
some great work on science, or something of 
that kind ? ” asked Royal as they threaded 
their way through the crowd. 

“ Because, in the first place, the world would 
not be surprised, and even if it was, some one 
else would receive all the praise, as things in 
this world do not work by merit but by favor 
and fate.” 

“ True ! true enough,” replied his friend. 
“ But let us not discuss such unfairness. I 
have more important matters to talk over with 
you.” 

By this time, the two friends had arrived at 


42 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


the entrance to the saloon ; they descended the 
stairs and were soon snugly ensconced in a 
private box • their supper was ordered, and the 
curtains pulled together. As the gas-jet blazed 
up into full flame, Royal Hall observed that 
the face of Gilbert was pale and weary-looking, 
as though with many days of care and sadness. 

“ Have you been happy since we parted ? ” 
asked Royal. 

“ Oh, yes, as happy as could be expected in 
this vale of tears,” answered Gilbert in a tone 
tinged with melancholy. “ Fate has treated 
me as kindly as usual,” he added. 

“ And are you still as much of a fatalist as 
you used to be ? ” asked Royal. 

“ More than ever. The older I grow, the 
stronger the conviction grows on me ; for how 
could I think otherwise, unless guided by fancy 
instead of reason ? ” 

“ Well, we shall all know sometime, for the 
irrevocable day must come at last,” said Royal 
thoughtfully ; “ for none may enjoy the pleasures 
of sin, without, sooner or later, suffering its 
punishments.” 


IS IT FATE ? 


43 


“ Sin and punishment ! ” echoed Gilbert in 
musing, saddened accents; “what are these 
but idle words ? terms without meaning, in- 
vented by hypocrisy for the profit of the politi- 
cian and of the priest. Fables to grind the 
poor, and glorify the rich. Does not the view- 
less hand of an unknown and unimaginable 
destiny shape all our actions as much as our 
features or our limbs ? Do not all our thoughts 
ebb and flow according to the eternal and unal- 
terable laws governing the association of human 
ideas, with the same regularity which guides 
the pulsations of the heart and the circulation 
of the blood through the arteries ? 

“ Can the fire at will change itself to frost, or 
the snow-drifts dissolve themselves into rain ? 
Can that monarch of the forest transform his 
terrible nature into the timid, gentle lamb ? 
Can a Christian be brought up under the regime 
of the Crescent, or a turbaned Turk in the 
nursery of the holy Cross ? If man be too 
feeble to change even the color of his hair or 
eyes, can such a helpless creature be rationally 


44 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


expected to change the color of his profound, 
mysterious passions, or the natural tinge of his 
instinctive disposition ? No, there is one great 
gloomy word, that explains all philosophy, 
religion, law, ethics, ideas, and actions — every 
problem of life, and every fact of nature — and 
that word is Fatality ! ” 

“ Your theory of itself is but a film of fool- 
ish abstraction,” replied^the other. “ Besides 
levelling humanity with the atoms of the earth, 
and with the lower animals, it ignores an essen- 
tial part of his mental and moral constitution, 
denying the existence of both the will and con- 
science. Gilbert, if you really believed the way 
you talk, what need would you have to devise 
any precautions against impending perils, but 
let the iron wheels of destiny roll on, without 
help or hindrance from your ineffectual fingers ? 
For what good ? What will avail the efforts of 
an insect’s wings to stir or stay the whirlwind 
that tosses the world like a feather? If you 
truly had faith in your strange creed, why 
would you ever know remorse ? ” 


IS IT FATE ? 


45 


“It is all the result of the same endless, all- 
embracing Fatality,” urged Gilbert; “that has 
given us the power of imagination to picture 
these things.” 

“ Your reasoning is powerless to satisfy 
either the head or the heart,” answered Royal. 
“ It is utterly incredible that the Author of the 
universe, in a world of such endless, unbroken, 
sublime harmony, should have interpolated such 
an anomaly as your cruel hypothesis would 
make man. For, there is not one instinct, 
desire, or innate passion either in the human or 
brute creation which does not find its fitting 
sphere of objective enjoyment Throughout 
the woods and waters, populous with all kinds 
of life, not a single bird, beast, insect, or fish 
can be found with an appetite without the pos- 
sibility of gratification. And does not this 
general rule hold good equally in the case of 
man ? The eye delights in colors. Well, 
everywhere in nature we see all that is beauti- 
ful. The ear asks for melody. Nature answers 
it through the birds and in many more ways, 


4 6 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


most especially in the human voice. And so 
of every other principle inherent in our myste- 
rious organization of mingled mind and matter. 
All the flowers of the soul bear their proper 
fruit in the season of their happy harvest, 
unless blighted by sin or false education. If 
such, then, be this universal law, without one 
single failure, whenever we have the means of 
verification, is it not madness to distrust it in 
the only case where the object of the desire 
lies beyond the reach of the senses ? For there 
is no passion at once so profound, general, and 
all-enduring as this want of perpetuity of exist- 
ence ; if it be, indeed, a delusion, then the 
Creator himself must be cruel as well as false 
to break before our eyes these glimpses of im- 
mortal light, only to render the thought of 
darkness and annihilation the more unen- 
durable ! ” 

“ Creator ! ” echoed Gilbert with a smile ; 
“ do not terror and imagination make the 
gods?” 

“It would be much nearer the truth to say 


IS IT FATE ? 


4 7 


that fear forms the unbeliever,” retorted the 
other. 

“If your sentiments are so orthodox, why do 
you not put them into practice? ” urged Gilbert, 
resorting to the final argument. 

At this moment, perhaps fortunately, the 
discussion was put to an end by the entrance of 
the waiter with their suppers. 


48 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER V. 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


“ J DO not wish to sentimentalize,” said 
Gilbert thoughtfully to his friend, when 
they had finished their supper; “but it seems 
to me, judging from all I hear and read, that a 
deep-seated and gloomy discontent pervades 
the minds of most of the young people of the 
present age. Every day I hear men — yes, 
and women — even fair and lovely girls, ex- 
press an indifference to life, a disgust for the 
world, a dissatisfaction, that is utterly depress- 
ing and discouraging.” 

“ It is probably because you associate with 
literary people, and the misfortunes of young 
authors are proverbial,” responded Royal. 

“ Not so ! ” said Gilbert, brightening up and 
speaking with animation. “ I have long since 
abandoned the idea of becoming a literary man. 
If I can originate a thought, f care little for 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


49 


the mode of its realization. At present I am 
ruined, as usual, to all appearances.” 

“You are not prospering, then, in a pecuni- 
ary way ? ” said Royal. 

“ Not at all,” replied Gilbert coolly. 

“ What are you doing ? ” 

“ Not much of anything.” 

“ What do you live on ? ” 

“Credit, chiefly.” 

“ What are your prospects ? ” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Not know ! ” exclaimed Royal, astounded at 
the recklessness of this accomplished man. 

“ Of course not,” said Gilbert : “ how should 
I ? There is no sail in sight, but I have not 
cruised these long years on the ocean of adven- 
ture without learning that prizes often turn up 
when we least expect them.” 

“ Ah, Gilbert ! Why, how are you ? ” said a 
voice. “ I have not seen you for an age.” 

“ Why, Hugh, how are you ? Pray sit down. 
— Mr. Royal Hall, Mr. Hugh Riordan. Hovv 
have you been getting on lately, Riordan ? ” 


50 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Splendidly !” said Riordan, who had not paid 
his board for two months, and had borrowed of 
every one he knew, till his list of friends was 
exhausted. “ Splendidly ! I am now at work 
on a book for which the publishers have offered 
me two thousand dollars when finished.” 

“ How many pages have you written already?” 
asked Royal, who, from a long experience with 
Gilbert, detected in his immovable gravity the 
spirit of irony, which in this strange man took 
so many varied forms of expression. 

“ Not exactly written,” said Riordan, slightly 
disconcerted ; “ but I have the plot mapped 
out. It is a good one.” 

“ Pray let us hear it,” said Gilbert, with a 
side glance at Royal. 

“ Nothing would delight me more,” said 
Royal politely. 

“ Of course it must be in confidence.” 

“Certainly,” assured his companions. 

“ I wonder who is in the next box to us,” 
said the to-be author suspiciously ; and, hear- 
ing a peculiar noise, Mr. Hugh Riordan sud- 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


51 


denly sprang on the seat and looked over the 
partition. Strange to say, he found himself 
face to face with a man who was also looking 1 
over the partition on the other side. This 
curious personage was no other than our 
already familiar acquaintance, Crooked Jim, 
who had taken up that position more conven- 
iently to overhear the conversation of the 
party, with what object in view would have 
been difficult to have told. But he was equal 
to the occasion ; therefore, in his coolest and 
blandest manner, he said, before Riordan could 
utter a word, — 

“ Excuse me, sir ; did you call to me ? ” 

“ No, sir,” said Riordan very sharply, de- 
scending to his seat. “ Some fool thought we 
called him,” he explained to Gilbert and Royal. 

“ Well,” said Gilbert, “ to return to your 
story.” 

“Yes, to return to your book,” said Royal. 

“In the first place, I flatter myself that 
the idea of the story is original. There are 
two rivals in love with my heroine.” 


52 


GILBERT TIIORNDYKE. 


“ There generally are,” said Royal dryly. 

At this moment, a stranger who had entered 
the saloon suddenly perceived Gilbert, and, 
turning away from the bar, directed his steps 
towards the box, of which the curtains had 
been left partially open by the last waiter. 

The new-comer was a pale, thin man, slightly 
above the ordinary height, erect in form, stern 
in mien, and of striking appearance. Beneath 
his dark, massive brows flashed eyes cold and 
penetrating as a hawk’s. He stretched out his 
hand to Gilbert, who took it very coldly, and 
smiled with that faint, sad smile which had 
yielded to a more genuine one during the com- 
mencement of Riordan’s recital. 

“What, Mr. Hall also!” said the stranger. 
“ I am decidedly in the way of meeting old 
friends. When did you return from Paris ? ” 

“ A short time since,” answered Royal 
shortly. 

“Sit down, Mr. Arkwright,” said Gilbert, 
“and let me make you acquainted with Mr. 
Riordan. Mr. Riordan, Mr. Arkwright. Mr. 


RICHARD AR* WRIGHT. 


53 


Riordan’s writings must be familiar to you, if 
you read the popular publications of the day.” 

“ Both the name and the writings of Mr. 
Hugh Riordan are very well known to me,” 
said he whom Gilbert had introduced by the 
name of Arkwright, with great gravity. 

“A perfect gentleman,” thought Riordan to 
himself ; “ decidedly aristocratic air, in fact ; ” 
and the young Irishman was captivated by the 
stranger, to whom his writings and name were 
apparently so familiar. 

“ A conceited dude,” was the reflection of 
the other. “ I wonder what he has ever writ- 
ten : occasional poems and sketches, I suppose ; 
in love with himself ; fond of dress, but can’t 
do it. Besides, he looks curious, with those 
selfish, watchful eyes of his.” 

Like a flash these thoughts passed through 
Arkwright’s cold and calculating mind. 

“ Suppose we adjourn to the street,” said 
Gilbert, preparing to rise. 

“ And how is the young lady I met you with 
last summer at Saratoga ? ” said Arkwright. 


54 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Oh, that girl ! ” said Gilbert, laughing. “ I 
had almost forgotten. She married a man in 
Philadelphia. I had a letter from her a short 
time ago.” 

“ What was she ? ” asked Riordan. 

“An experiment,” replied Gilbert gloomily, 
“ and, as usual, a failure.” 

“ Woman is a mistake,” said Royal ; “a sort 
of a fascinating fraud.” 

Royal at that time did not happen to be in 
love. 

“ I wonder if there will be different sexes 
in the world to come,” said Gilbert. 

“ I hope so,” sighed Royal, thus giving a 
contradiction to his former statement. 

“ The world to come ? ” said Arkwright. 
“ I thought you did not believe in anything, 
Thorndyke.” 

“ Nor do I. Perhaps, though, that is next 
door to believing in everything.” 

And the agnostic arose, and, followed by the 
rest of the party, approached the desk for the 
purpose of paying his check. 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


55 


As they crossed the room Arkwright said 
carelessly to Gilbert, “Do you know Miss 
Maude Dexter ? ” 

“ Yes ; a most charming girl,” replied Gilbert 
indifferently. “ Do you know her ? ” 

“ Intimately,” said Arkwright, and his voice 
trembled slightly. 

Gilbert looked the speaker full in the face, 
and said with an affected enthusiasm, “ She is 
very handsome.” 

“ Very !” replied Arkwright, and his quick 
glance betrayed to Gilbert a jealous rival. At 
once the idea of making this affair a safeguard 
for his own love crossed the mind of the sharp 
student of human nature. 

“ What do you think of her cousin, Ida Sher- 
man ? ” said Gilbert, with difficulty disguising 
his own feelings. 

“A pretty enough girl,” said Arkwright 
indifferently. 

“ He loves Maude, and not Ida, thank for- 
tune,” reflected Gilbert. Poor Amos S. Dexter, 
how little you know that those that are so near 


56 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


and dear to you are entering into the calcula- 
tions of such men ! 

Meanwhile their neighbors in the next stall 
had come out and advanced towards the desk. 

“Jim,” said Tom, nudging his friend’s elbow, 
“ Jim, there he is.” 

“ Who ? Where ? ” 

“ The Master — he — there.” 

And the two crooks fixed their eyes on Ark- 
wright, who cast towards them a piercing look 
of menace and disdain. At the same time 
Riordan turned and surveyed the three with 
an air of contempt so little disguised that 
Crooked Jim, being somewhat under the influ- 
ence of liquor, rudely demanded, — 

“ Who are you looking at, you dude ? ” 
Riordan’s first idea might have been to crush 
his insulter by a terrible look. That proving a 
failure, it occurred to the angry Milesian to 
draw a revolver which he had in his pocket. 
Prudence, however, restrained him. While he 
was thinking what was best to do under the 
circumstances, Crooked Jim, whose courage, like 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


57 


that of most rogues, was very variable, mistaking 
Riordan’s hesitation for a sign of timidity, 
puffed his cigar-smoke very coolly into the face 
of the aspirant for literary fame, seeming to 
consider that he held trumps. 

He was destined to be mistaken. 

Riordan’s eyes flashed fire. Whatever else 
he was, he was no coward. Quick as thought 
he struck the rogue a terrible blow squarely 
between the eyes, which sent the confidence 
man reeling dizzily against the bar. 

“ Stand up to it, Jim, and do him up ! ” roared 
Joe, whose unworthy pupil in sparring that per- 
sonage had been. 

But Riordan intended business. His blood 
was up. 

“ Good ! Well done ! ” cried Gilbert, as at 
the second round Mr. Jim Hobson measured 
his length on the ground. 

“ What have you to say about it ? ” grunted 
Jim’s ex-teacher, squaring up to Gilbert, bent 
on redeeming the honor of the party to which 
he belonged. 


58 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ My good man,” said Gilbert quietly, in that 
tone of confidence which to the ignorant is a 
mystery, “beware — I advise you.” 

“ You are armed, I suppose? ” retorted the ruf- 
fian scornfully, as he drew a wicked-looking knife. 

“Stand back!” shouted Jones, alias Ark- 
wright, springing forward to throw himself 
between his confederate and Gilbert, who had 
quietly stepped back one step, and drawn a 
small, richly made pistol which was suspended 
by a fine steel chain to his waist. At the same 
instant Royal Hall, who had smoked calmly 
during the whole scene, seeing the knife drawn, 
and filled with apprehension for his friend’s 
safety, sprang forward, and, regardless of his 
own danger, laid, with one crushing blow of his 
heavy blackthorn cane, the huge athlete pros- 
trate. Simultaneously with this unexpected 
demonstration of Royal, the sharp report of 
Gilbert’s pistol was heard, and all in the saloon 
were suddenly awe-stricken. Every one 
crowded around the fallen man, who lay still 
and bleeding on the floor. 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 


59 


“You have shot him,” said Riordan. 

“ I am afraid you have killed him ! ” said 
Arkwright anxiously. 

Gilbert said nothing. He knelt down before 
the wounded man and sought hastily for traces 
of his bullet ; in so doing he accidentally 
exposed the ex-circus-performer’s belt, and 
in the very centre of its buckle was a deep 
dent where the ball had struck, showing that 
it was the cane and not the bullet that 
quieted him. Accordingly Gilbert examined 
the cut inflicted by Royal, which proved to 
be an ugly one, from which the blood ran 
copiously. 

“ I fear he is seriously injured,” said Gilbert. 

“ I did it to save your life,” said Royal. 

There was no doubt whatever but that he 
had saved his friend’s life, for, as the bullet had 
failed to take effect, another second would have 
seen the knife buried in the side of the man’s 
antagonist. 

“ Thank you, my dear friend, you did nobly,” 
said Gilbert ; “ still I should feel very badly to 


6o 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


have the man die on account of such a slight 
affair.” 

“Who is he? Where is his home?” said 
Riordan, looking around for his companions. 

But they were nowhere to be found. At a sign 
from their Master they had quickly disappeared. 
He thought it best to get rid of them, for fear 
something might be said that would compro- 
mise him. 

During the whole affair, Arkwright had been 
filled with the utmost anxiety. His arrival in 
the saloon had been purely accidental. There 
was nothing that could have annoyed him more 
than to meet his agents in so public a place. 
What was he to do with the man? He was 
wounded, might have a fever, become delirious, 
and in his ravings tell all he knew; yet Ark- 
wright did not wish to take him to his own 
home for many reasons, especially as it might 
attract attention and surmises. The counter- 
feiter was in a quandary and had about resolved 
to take him, when to his consternation Gilbert 
said abruptly, — 


RICHARD ARKWRIGHT. 6 1 

“ I think it is best to keep this unfortunate 
affair secret. It is now late. At any time 
strangers may enter. I will take this man to 
my own boarding-place in Cambridgeport, and 
nurse him. Royal, will you call a hack while I 
bind up his head ? On our way we will take in 
a physician.” 

So in this peculiar manner Joe Greenfield, 
the ex-burglar and acrobat as well as the confi- 
dential agent of Arkwright the counterfeiter, 
became the guest of Gilbert. The Master 
walked home in a very unhappy state of 
mind, after promising to call and inquire re- 
garding the condition of the sick man soon, 
accompanied part way by Riordan, who was 
fighting the battle over and over again 
verbally. 

“ Call in and see me,” said Riordan cordially 
as they parted. 

“ Not much ! ” thought Arkwright. How- 
ever, he bowed very politely, and replied, “ Noth- 
ing would afford me more pleasure, Mr. Riordan. 
Many thanks ! Good-night, sir ; I trust your 


62 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


rest will not be disturbed by the excitement we 
have undergone.” 

And with that parting wish Arkwright left 
him at the corner of Washington and Dover 
streets. 


THE WOUNDED MAN. 


63 


CHAPTER VI. 

THE WOUNDED MAN. 

JT was perhaps an hour later than when 
Arkwright and Riordan separated the same 
evening, that a hack drew up in front of a 
large, old-fashioned wooden house located on 
Magazine Street, in that suburb of Boston 
known as Cambridgeport. Two men alighted 
from the carriage, supporting a third, whose 
head was all bandaged up. These men were 
Gilbert, Dr. Browne, and the confidential agent 
of Arkwright This house was situated on the 
corner of James Street, on a slight elevation, 
from the sides of which a grass lawn, carefully 
kept, sloped downwards to the streets. The 
outside appearance was very prepossessing and 
homelike. At one time it had been the resi- 
dence of one of Cambridge’s old and aristo- 
cratic families, who had followed the tide of 


6 4 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


fashion and moved up on to North Avenue. It 
was now kept as a quiet boarding-house by a 
Mrs. Wedger, who was a fine-looking, matronly 
widow of English birth, whose father had been 
an officer of rank and distinction in the English 
navy. She possessed one of those natures so 
rarely met with ; so noble and kind that her 
chief mission on earth seemed to be to assist 
and console those in trouble. Married unfortu- 
nately when young, and disappointed in her 
love, she had faced afflictions with such a lofty 
and steady heroism that it won for her the ad- 
miration of all who knew her. She had but 
one child, — a little son, — whom, thus far, she 
had maintained in a most respectable manner. 
Mrs. Wedger, in addition to much experience 
and powers of great observation, was a fine 
judge of human nature. In her bearing she 
was easy, and in her language free, but her 
tender heart rendered her incapable of injuring 
even an enemy. She was extremely fond of 
children, and always had a lot of young friends 
around her. All her boarders became her per* 


THE WOUNDED MAN. 


65 


sonal friends, among whom was Gilbert, who 
had for a long time made his home with her. 
Between this strange but gifted man and his 
landlady a friendship founded on mutual respect 
and esteem had long existed. They understood 
each other thoroughly, for neither one could be 
mean or deceitful. She often made a confidant 
of Gilbert, and Gilbert of her. In regard to 
his board bill, Mrs. Wedger gave him unlimited 
credit, knowing full well that he always took 
the first opportunity of settling his debts. 
Nothing that Gilbert ever did met with any 
opposition from Mrs. Wedger. So that when 
Gilbert brought to his rooms, in the hack, the 
wounded man, and told his landlady that he 
wished to nurse him there until restored to 
health, she asked no questions, but took it for 
granted that he had good and sufficient reasons 
for so doing, and offered to assist him in every 
way that was in her power. Truly the injured 
man had fallen into good hands. 

After a careful examination, Dr. Browne, 
who was a personal friend of Gilbert, pro- 


66 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


nounced the wound a severe one, but not 
necessarily a fatal one. 

“ A strong fellow,” he said, looking at the 
solid build of the man and the large, muscular 
neck, “and will probably pull through all right.” 

He left, promising to call the next day, after 
leaving a prescription and some directions. 

When Joe Greenfield came to himself, after 
a period of mental confusion accompanied by 
a slow fever, he found Gilbert standing over 
him with a glass of cool lemonade in his hand, 
gazing with a calm, grave face on him. The 
poor fellow, who had scarcely taken anything 
but medicine since his arrival there, eagerly 
seized the glass and drank its contents at a 
single draught. 

“ Thank you, sir — thank you, sir,” he mur- 
mured faintly. So weak was the once hercu- 
lean man that a child could have overcome him. 
Everything around him was so clean and tidy, 
it almost made him think he had been trans- 
planted to another world. 

Who knows but that recollections of his early 


THE WOUNDED MAN. 6? 

childhood days came to the wayward man — 
days when he lived at home and knew a 
mother’s fond care and a father’s wise counsel ? 
Long forgotten impulses, long crushed boyish 
sentiments, which never were to find the 
reality, stirred the depths of his soul, and 
sincere gratitude shone from his dark eyes as 
they rested admiringly on the manly counte- 
nance of our hero. With its lofty air of com- 
mand, its white, massive brow, its regular 
features, it was a countenance to command 
attention and respect anywhere. 

Nor did the tall stature and powerful phy- 
sique of his benefactor by any means dimin- 
ish his feelings of admiration, which were of 
a very different kind from those the counter- 
feiter had caused. 

By one of those inexplicable impulses, the 
man determined to devote his future life, if 
spared, to the service of Gilbert, who, sitting 
down by his bedside, took his right hand kindly 
in his own. 

“ How are you feeling, my friend ? ” asked 
Gilbert. 


68 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“Weak and sick,” answered Joe — “thanks.” 

“ Do you feel like talking a little ? ” 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Let me, then, ask you if you have a family, 
or any friends to whom you wish me to commu- 
nicate your whereabouts.” 

“No one, sir,” replied Joe sadly. “I know 
of no one that would care whether I live or 
die.” 

“ Poor man ! ” said Gilbert, “ I can sympa- 
thize with you in that respect, for I, too, am 
alone in this world. I am going in town. 
What can I bring you : some fruit, wine, and 
flowers ? and what do you want for reading 
matter ? ” 

“ Anything, sir, you wish.” 

“ Well, good-day. I will leave you in good 
hands. You will be on your feet again in two 
or three days,” said Gilbert cheerfully. 

Joe said nothing, but looked his gratitude. 


THE DISCUSSION. 


69 


CHAPTER VII. 


THE DISCUSSION. 


^~MLBERT, leaving Joe in Mrs. Wedger’s 
good care, started for Boston, ostensibly 
to call on Ida. As he expected, she was de- 
lighted to see him. He was much pleased to 
hear that Maude had gone for the day to see a 
sick relative at Melrose. 

Ida, in the eyes of Gilbert, looked as charm- 
ing as ever, and indeed in the eyes of any one 
she must have been very beautiful. The tell- 
tale blush that rose to her face on greeting 
Gilbert would have convinced any one well 
versed in the ways of a woman’s heart, that Ida 
loved Gilbert, and it was equally true that 
Gilbert loved Ida. Day and night the image of 
each was present to the other. 

Purified by her love, Gilbert Thorndyke saw 
the clouds of disappointment and the shadows 


70 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


of experience pass away as the morning dew 
disappears before the sun’s rays. His imag- 
ination became purer. The sins of his ad- 
venturous and reckless youth were forgotten. 
His will once more became strong and impe- 
rial. His hope and courage once more bade 
defiance to the world. Once more he was pre- 
pared to renew that gigantic struggle which 
genius forever must maintain against ignorance 
and superstition. 

Gilbert’s first impulse, after finding himself 
alone in the drawing-room with Ida, was to 
declare his great love for her : taking her hand 
in his and placing his arm around her waist, he 
looked down into her glorious dark blue eyes, 
and said with great earnestness, “ With my 
whole heart I love you, Ida.” 

“ He truly loves me,” thought the lovely 
girl ; and yet she showed no alarm or surprise. 
Perhaps it was not entirely unexpected. 

Ida not making any response, Gilbert contin- 
ued, “ I am now situated in a position where I 
feel that I could make you very happy. I may 


THE DISCUSSION. 


7 1 


not be as wealthy as some of your other 
admirers, but no woman will ever marry a 
kinder, truer, or more considerate husband 
than I shall try to make you.” 

“ I can hardly answer you yet,” said Ida, 
with emotion, after a long pause. 

“You do not, then, dislike me — I mean, I 
am not disagreeable to you ? ” 

“No, no; I like you as a friend — I admire 
your great ability ; but I should take time to 
consider it.” 

“Very well,” said Gilbert, “I will wait your 
pleasure, and will not refer to the matter again 
until you give me your decision.” 

She loved him as few love at the present 
time, but still she hesitated to surrender herself 
to another. 

Her life had not run in the ordinary chan- 
nels. She was an orphan, both her parents 
dying when she was very young, and she be- 
came dependent on her uncle for a home. 
For years his health had been poor, and she 
well knew that should anything happen to him 


72 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


she would be alone in the world, without home, 
near friends, or money : her aunt and cousin 
she never liked ; and was satisfied that it was 
owing to her uncle’s influence that affairs were 
made so pleasant for her at her adopted home. 

It may possibly have been that that fact 
acted in Gilbert’s favor, for she decided to give 
him an affirmative answer the next time he 
called ; but we must not anticipate. 

After Gilbert had offered himself to Ida, an 
embarrassing silence ensued. Gilbert endeav- 
ored to relieve it by discussing other matters, 
and consequently the conversation drifted along 
in an unusual manner. As the conversation of 
two people like them is always interesting from 
an opposing similarity of their characteristics, 
we will partially repeat it, trusting that it may 
possibly interest some of our readers. 

First, let me say that by paths peculiar to 
each they had arrived at the same and yet 
different crossroads. 

Ida, the delicate student, reading and study- 
ing with intensity the literature of the past as 


THE DISCUSSION. 


73 


well as the modern ages, had yet lived in com- 
parative seclusion from the world, although she 
understood life ; knew what it was to live ; 
knew men and women and their frailties ; 
judged calmly, clearly, and justly of life and 
its evils and troubles with a sadness unem- 
bittered by the experience of personal suf- 
fering. 

On the opposite hand, Gilbert, though a 
student, had seen, felt, and done enough in 
his life to throw into the shade all his read- 
ing. His observations of men and customs 
had been great. In that way he learned far 
more than he ever could have by reading. 

On the occasion referred to, Ida asked her 
lover, “Do you read much now?” 

“ I do not,” answered Gilbert. “ I am tired 
of reading.” 

“ Tired of reading ! Why, how can any one 
tire of reading?” 

“ Easily enough, when authors simply repeat 
old and familiar ideas. What we want is new 
and original ones.” 


74 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ I think I understand you : you are a phil- 
osopher.” 

“ Hardly, for philosophizing is only repeti- 
tion.” 

“ What do you do, then ? ” 

“ Well, if nothing better presents itself, I 
build castles in the air for the future ; for if 
I ever could erect them in reality, I should 
then have both the anticipation and realization ; 
but should nothing ever come of them, I at least 
would have the anticipation, which is half.” 

“ Well, there is something to that,” said Ida. 

“ I observe facts,” continued Gilbert. “ I 
read everywhere the book of Nature. Chiefly 
I read men, and, like a mineralogist, classify 
my specimens. Every variety of organization 
is to me a new study, its characteristics the 
handwriting of Fate. Every face is a dial, 
every feature a number.” 

“ And what is your object in this scientific 
criticism of mankind ? ” asked Ida, becoming 
more and more interested in this strange but 
gifted man. 


THE DISCUSSION. 


7 5 


" To know men is to rule them. Knowledge 
is power.” 

“ Then your aspirations are to rule men ? ” 

“ I do not aspire. It is my nature. I love 
freedom beyond everything. In order to be 
free one must be master, for are not all the 
world either masters or slaves ? ” 

“ Then,” said Ida, with restrained interest, 
“ you would rule men with your thoughts ? ” 

“ My dear girl,” said Gilbert, pausing, “ I 
am afraid I am becoming conceited, and you 
know that true merit and modesty always go 
hand in hand. Besides, I am running the risk 
of being misunderstood. Suppose we change 
the subject.” 

“ No, no,” said Ida eagerly ; “ I shall not 
misunderstand you. Go on.” 

“ I cannot really tell,” said Gilbert, “ why 
I should speak to you to-day as I have perhaps 
never spoken to any living being before,” and 
he looked at Ida with such sincere admiration, 
for an instant, as to embarrass her ; noticing 
which, he continued, “ He who takes the first 


76 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


steps in science must be followed by all men, 
therefore he is the ruler of the world. The 
ambition of the wise, therefore, is to aim at 
the discovery of higher truths and greater 
facts than have yet been known. In this 
respect I would rule. It is my destiny to 
rule. I must." As Gilbert finished he looked 
so lofty and noble that Ida sat as if entranced : 
finally, regaining herself, she asked, — 

“ Do you think that want will ever cease to 
exist ? ” 

Gilbert, with effort repressing a terrible de- 
sire to defy propriety by clasping Ida to his heart 
and kissing her a hundred times, replied, — 

“ Yes ; it must end some day. The day must 
come when even the poorest classes will rise 
above the stupidity of fostering, instead of pre- 
venting, crime. For what is crime ? Mental 
disease, produced by want. A rich man that 
is dishonest is a very foolish man, for he has 
no need to steal. In the Old World ages of 
ignorance, selfishness, and poverty have created 
an army of these outcasts. Emigration to 


THE DISCUSSION. 


;; 


America furnishes hordes of these unfortunates 
as a nucleus for home production of the same 
kind. In Boston and in New York the miseries 
of London and Paris begin to re-appear, accom- 
panied also by the same luxury and extravagance 
in the opposite class.” 

“Do you not become disgusted with this 
world ?” asked Ida. 

“ I do,” said Gilbert, and his face resumed a 
look of great earnestness as he said coldly, 
“ Sometimes I look forward into the future till 
I forget the past, and then I forget to despise 
mankind to the degree it deserves.” 

But the time for Gilbert to go had come, so 
he arose to take his departure. The clock on 
the mantel struck six as he was leaving. 

“ Good-night, Ida. I will call Friday for 
my answer.” 

After Gilbert left, the young beauty rose 
and stepped before a mirror, in which her 
whole form was reflected. She stood there, tall, 
graceful, delicately voluptuous in the rounded 
outlines of her neck and shoulders, from which 


78 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


she had now removed the lace that till then 
had shrouded their beauty. There she stood, 
with an innocent yet imperial pride, and in her 
inmost heart a little voice whispered, “ For his 
sake, I thank God that I am beautiful.” 

When a brilliant woman is beautiful, it is 
the beauty of another world. Unfortunate are 
those on whom its rays shine coldly. 

Far better never to have scaled the walls of 
Paradise and gazed upon its matchless delights, 
than, having seen it, to be driven back by the 
flaming sword of despair into eternal gloom. 


i 


TROUBLE BREWING. 


79 


CHAPTER VIII. 


TROUBLE BREWING. 

day following the episode related in the 



last chapter, Richard Arkwright presented 
himself at No. — Beacon Street, and received, to 
his joy, a cordial welcome from Maude. Miss 
Dexter was in some respects a remarkable 
girl, one of those rare women who, when they 
meet with men of a certain class, become very 
fascinating ; a power that is the gift of but a 
very few. It is a strange quality, depending 
for its existence on the possession of unusual 
sympathies, and is generally a sign of some 
superiority very difficult to explain, yet of great 
influence on certain minds that come within its 
circle. It is often accompanied, even in those 
that are bad, by an internal harmony, a grand 
self-reliance, that is in itself an element of 
greatness. 


8o 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


With all the fascinating qualities she pos- 
sessed, she well knew in her own heart the 
immense gulf existing between her own acquire- 
ments and those of Ida. While jealous of her 
beautiful cousin, she was, for various reasons, 
anxious to retain her affection and good-will. 

All the same, since the calls of Gilbert had 
become so frequent, she had begun to conceive 
a strong dislike for her more victorious rival. 

She had become infatuated with Gilbert, and 
was almost beside herself when she realized 
that it was Ida Gilbert loved, and not herself. 
In her heart she had said when they first met, 
“ My love shall win him ! ” 

But to effect her object, namely the desire 
to produce a rupture between the man she so 
loved and her beautiful cousin, she required an 
accomplice. Nor was she long in choosing one 
who was both able and willing to assist her. 

This dangerous friend and ally was none 
other than Richard Arkwright. 

Arkwright had long known and loved Maude. 
Had he been successful in receiving the slight- 


TROUBLE BREWING. 


Sr 


est encouragement from her, he would doubt- 
less, at once, have openly declared his love, and 
perhaps have won her by its intensity and sin- 
cerity. His true business was very carefully 
disguised under the garb of a large and success- 
ful stock-speculator. He moved in very good 
society, for his relatives were highly connected 
New-Yorkers. Aside from his reserved and 
severe air, Arkwright’s face was aristocratic- 
looking, and what some might calk handsome. 
His features were straight and classical ; his 
figure well proportioned and graceful. He 
dressed in the height of fashion, and his man- 
ners were dignified and natural. 

His age was about the same as Gilbert’s. 
He was, therefore, to all outward appearances 
a desirable match for a young lady occupying 
Miss Dexter’s position. 

As Arkwright usually called in the forenoon, 
while Gilbert paid his visits late in the after- 
noon, they seldom met. But after the affair 
in the Argyle saloon, a new feature presented 
itself ; Arkwright called on Gilbert in reality tQ 


82 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


ascertain his views regarding the two cousins. 
Gilbert expressed himself with great caution, 
allowing him to go away with a suspicion that 
he really did care something for Maude, for he 
thought, “ If he has a fancy for her, a little 
jealousy will make him more attentive and help 
my case.” 

Arkwright became terribly jealous, and this, 
added to his danger of falling into Gilbert’s 
power through some indiscretion on the part 
of the sick man, was sufficient cause to make 
the changer of bank-bills the unsuspected 
enemy of the lover of Ida. 

Thus it was, when Maude Dexter confiden- 
tially assured her mistrustful admirer of her 
wish to prevent Mr. Thorndyke from obtaining 
the hand of Ida, Arkwright promised to assist 
her to his utmost. 

“ Indeed I suspect,” said Maude, taking a 
bold step, “ that he is a rake trying to deceive 
the girl ; he may be married.” 

“ Who knows ? ” said Arkwright, with a 
knowing look. 


TROUBLE BREWING. 


83 


“ And divorced from his wife ? ” 

“ Probably." 

“ It is enough," thought Maude. 

The explosion soon came. 

Ida had entered the room. A conversation 
on general topics followed ; Arkwright was, as 
usual, polite and fluent. 

“ By the way, Mr. Arkwright, what a charm- 
ing man is Mr. Thorndyke," said Maude. 

Arkwright was personally brave, though gen- 
erally careful. He answered quietly, — 

“ Are you not aware, Miss Dexter, that 
Gilbert is married? What is the matter? Are 
you ill ? " he asked Ida, pretending to be sur- 
prised at her sudden agitation. 

“ Not at all, sir," answered Ida, rising and 
leaving the room with a look which terrified 
her cousin and left her in a very uncertain and 
frightened condition regarding the success of 
the cruel strategy. Ida had no suspicion of 
deception. *She had heard Gilbert casually 
mention Arkwright as one of his acquaint- 
ances, but neither was cognizant of the power 


84 GILBERT THORN DYKE. 

Maude had over the man. She took it as a 
fact ; and it was easy for Maude to afterwards 
fill up the details, and by pretence affect pity 
and sorrow for her. 

Ida, while a brilliant girl, was innocent of the 
vast amount of intrigue and deception going 
on in this world. She had not then learned 
what every true man knows, that your self-pro- 
fessed saints are either the most contemptible 
of hypocrites or the meanest specimens of 
humanity. 

Love is the master-passion of the world, the 
elixir of happiness, the secret of power. To 
how many has it become a scourge and a 
curse ! How often do we see the beautiful and 
noble driven apart like ships at sea in a storm, 
by the errors, the prejudice, and the hypocrisy 
of society ! 

Thus, because Gilbert had been in his past 
life a man, and not a weak substitute for one, 
he was condemned as low and wicked. Ida, 
believing him married, regarded his love as an 
insult, as any other pure-minded girl would 


TROUBLE BREWING. 


85 


have clone. By a single lie was destroyed, for 
the time, the happiness of two of the most 
accomplished persons of their time. 

“ Maude,” said Richard Arkwright abruptly, 
as soon as Ida had left the room, “ this is 
serious business ; did you notice the girl’s 
face ? She turned as white as a sheet. I fear 
we have struck harder than was intended.” 

“ We?” exclaimed Maude, resenting the 
familiarity of her companion. “ I did not tell 
her that Mr. Thorndyke was married.” 

“ That is so ; but you know very well that I 
did it only to please you.” 

“To please me ? Why should it please me ? 
What difference does it make to me ? ” said 
the unreasonable beauty, pouting, and looking 
— in Arkwright’s eyes — doubly seductive. 

“ If that is the case, perhaps I had better 
correct the mistake, especially as I deliberately 
risked my life in making it.” 

“ What do you mean by risking your life ? ” 
asked Miss Dexter, with an increasing show of 
interest. 


86 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Do you not understand that Gilbert Thorn- 
dyke is not the man to permit such a gross 
injury to go unrevenged ? No, indeed ; rely on 
it, that should the deception ever be discov- 
ered, he would shoot me as a dog.” 

“ But how will he ever know it ? ” 

“ That remains to be seen. Sooner or later, 
all things are found out,” muttered Ark- 
wright in a gloomy tone. “ However, it is 
said, and let us trust to fate. As for you, 
Maude, you now know what my devotion will 
do for you.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Arkwright ! ” 

“ One kiss before I go.” 

“ Leave me, sir, I insist.” 

“ My dear girl, think how much I love you.” 

“ There — now go.” 

“ I will call on you to-morrow.” 

“To-morrow ? ” 

“ Good-by.” 

“ Good-by.” 

And Arkwright left the house in a peculiar 
frame of mind. The knell of Gilbert’s happi- 


TROUBLE BREWING. 


87 


ness was the signal for his own to commence. 
He had gained that first step which counts 
for so much. Past experience told him that 
the rest must soon follow. Bold as he was 
under ordinary circumstances, he could not, on 
calmer reflections, recall without unpleasant 
sensations th£ fact that he had done a fearful 
injury to a man who, under great provocation, 
was capable of going to the most desperate 
extremities. Henceforward, not only his lib- 
erty but his life hung by a thread, and the 
terrible arm of the Law was not more certainly 
suspended over his head than was the deadly 
pistol of Gilbert hypothetically pointed at his 
heart. With his art he was sinning against 
mankind, with his heart he was wronging Gil- 
bert. In short, he had doubled his perils. 
And the sick man — what if he should betray 
him ? Truly, he was not to be envied. 


88 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER IX. 


A COUNTERFEITER S HOME. 


'Y^/’HEN Arkwright departed from Beacon 
Street, after the affair mentioned in our 
last chapter, he went directly to his residence, 
which was at the South End, on a street 
leading from Washington Street, in a locality 
at that time far removed from all business 
activity. 

There was nothing especial about it to 
distinguish it from the other houses in the 
same block. It was a fairly respectable-look- 
ing house of brick, four stories high, wifrh a 
slated roof, and a very small grass-plot in front, 
surrounded by a little iron fence, which a good 
coat of paint would have decidedly improved. 

All the blinds were closed, and from the 
outside it had rather a gloomy, forsaken air. 
The doorplate bore the uncommon name of 


a counterfeiter’s home. 


89 


Smith. Arkwright, on reaching it, opened 
the door with his latch-key, and ascended the 
stairs. He did not stop until he reached the 
landing of the third story, where a door, at 
the foot of the next flight of stairs, which 
were narrower than those below, impeded 
further ascent. 

Since the carpenter had made it, no living 
mortal but Arkwright had ever passed through 
it. The lock was a marvel of workmanship, 
and even if successful in unlocking it, there was 
another secret in opening it ; namely, it must 
be lifted : otherwise it remained in its place. 

After he had passed through this door, he 
carefully refastened it, and lighted a wax taper 
which he took from a small silver match-box 
which he always carried in his pocket. A sin- 
gular room was that of Arkwright’s. It was 
evidently not intended to receive callers in, as 
the only piece of furniture to sit on was one 
large, old-fashioned armchair. Arkwright, who 
was tired by his long walk, threw himself into 
it, and, lighting a cigar, fell to meditating. 


9 o 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Art is long and life is short,” he thought, 
“and a man cannot become the first alterer of 
his time in one or two days. Let us see. 
Four years ago I commenced by changing the 
denominations of the various bills, and by the 
aid of my knowledge of chemistry I brought it 
into such perfection that I won the admiration 
of every bank in the United States. I became 
the king of counterfeiters, and I deserved the 
distinction. I have done a great deal of busi- 
ness and done it on a large scale. By referring 
to my account-book ” — Arkwright here ex- 
amined his ledger — “I have successfully 
passed exactly two hundred and twenty-one 
thousand three hundred and fifty dollars, which 
I have altered over at a profit of over one hun- 
dred thousand dollars. Of this I have put into 
real estate, in the business part of the city, 
seventy thousand, which to-day would sell for 
probably over one hundred thousand. The bal- 
ance I have spent. Thanks to my disguises and 
care I have never yet been detected. A few 
weeks more, and then Maude and happiness, or 


a counterfeiter’s home. 


91 


dishonor and death ! But now to business ! 
I must make five thousand dollars before 
morning.” 

The alterer had well said that the art of 
altering the denominations of bills could not be 
learned in one day. Before he commenced to 
circulate his changed money, much time had 
been spent and wasted in practice, engraving 
plates, and the like, all requiring the utmost 
patience and labor. As it took a long time to 
engrave each of these plates, it was necessary 
to print off a good many of the same kind, 
which not only was very dangerous but very 
apt to frustrate its own object. 

Industry and perseverance will, in time, over- 
come all obstacles. Arkwright was now, by' 
the aid of a steel and zinc press which he had 
invented, enabled to reproduce fac-similes of 
all the bills issued. Arkwright arose and 
looked around the room. On every hand were 
tables covered with engravers’ and artists’ tools 
and other materials ; shelves laden with bottles, 
a couple of presses of curious construction ; a 


92 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


camera, a microscope, etc. ; in one corner on a 
table were a couple of very richly chased revolv- 
ers. Near one of the windows lay a coil of rope, 
one end of which was securely fastened to a ring 
in the wall. He stepped to one of the tables, 
and, taking up a plate of zinc which he carefully 
scrutinized, placed it in the press. The plate 
contained the impressions of no less than ten 
different bills, the very best banks in the 
country being represented. His paper being 
ready damped and the red parts already printed, 
our scientific alterer and counterfeiter pro- 
ceeded to ink the plate with a roller, and 
slowly to print off about fifty sheets, equal in 
value to more than five thousand dollars of 
spurious money. The cutting and separating 
the bills was soon performed by a pair of 
shears, and Arkwright now held in his hands as 
nice a looking pile of money as one would usu- 
ally care to see. Another hour was spent in 
dirtying, crumpling, greasing, and tearing the 
bills into an appearance of having passed 
through many hands, and the work was ended. 


a counterfeiter’s home. 93 

Do not let the facility with which so much 
money can so easily be made tempt any un- 
scrupulous person to enter into the business, 
for it is a life of anxiety, fear, and perpetual 
unrest, for it is a crime, and crime and misery 
always go hand in hand. 

On the following morning Richard Ark- 
wright, putting carefully into his secret pocket 
the counterfeit money he had made in the 
manner already described, sallied out in search 
of Tom and Crooked Jim. As he went out he 
met his only servant, an old and hideous negro, 
who had taken care of his rooms for years. 
He was very devoted to the man who had pro- 
vided him with all the necessities of life, — 
good clothing, good food, and good shelter, — 
things to which poor Peter had been in earlier 
days too often a stranger ; and with a gratitude 
that would have been commendable in people 
far his superior in intellect, he would have 
given his life at any time to have saved that of 
his master. 


94 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER X. 


DESPAIR. 


A T a supper given by Gilbert to a few of his 
intimate friends the same evening, while 
the champagne corks flew, Riordan cried, — 
“ Why, Gilbert, my dear boy, how changed 
you are ! Your inventions must have been 
successful, for you look five years younger.” 

Royal Hall did not make any such mistake. 
He knew that love and love alone had the 
power to work so great an alteration in his 
friend, and said to himself as he filled his 
glass, “ It must be that Ida has accepted him.” 

The next morning Gilbert arose early, and 
after a bath and breakfast stepped into the 
room of his wounded guest to inquire concern- 
ing his health. He found him feeling much 
better, and considerably stronger, so well that 
he had resolved to dress and be up during the 


DESPAIR. 


95 


day. Gilbert then turned his attention to some 
matters that he had neglected long enough. 
First he completed a story that he had been 
writing for a popular magazine, which had been 
delayed by his despondency. Next he wrote 
half a dozen business letters, which retrieved 
for a time his almost exhausted finances. In 
the afternoon he went to Boston and carried 
his story, then to see his publishers of a new 
scientific work which he fondly hoped would 
soon place him in comparatively easy and in- 
dependent circumstances at least, if not place 
his name high up on the roll of famous and 
learned scholars. 

Ah ! happy is it that for us poor mortals the 
to-morrow is an eternal mystery. 

Gilbert retired early that evening, and long 
lay awake thinking of his future plans ; his 
happiness when he could call Ida Sherman his 
own ; his fame as an author on scientific sub- 
jects, the wealth it would bring to him ; Ida 
and he would make an extended tour through- 
out Europe^ visiting Old England and the 


9 6 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


scenes of his former days. While thinking 
these pleasant thoughts he fell asleep. 

“ Here are three letters for you, Mr. Thorn- 
dyke,” said Mrs. Wedger, as she handed them 
to him after breakfast the next morning. 

Gilbert took the letters, and experienced a 
strange feeling of joy as in the handwriting on 
the smallest of the three envelopes he recog- 
nized the straight English style of penmanship 
which he knew so well to be that of Ida. 

He hurriedly ascended to his sitting-room 
and library combined, and broke open the 
envelope, carelessly throwing the other two 
on his table. As he read, his face lost all its 
color, his hands trembled, his eyes grew fixed, 
and he reeled into a chair. 

He read it again and again, seeming not to 
be able to comprehend its contents. 

It contained these words only : 

“Miss Ida Sherman declines to receive any further 
attention from Mr. Gilbert Thorndyke, and desires him 
to understand that this note must terminate their ac- 
quaintance.” 


DESPAIR. 


97 


After reading it, for hours Gilbert sat in a 
condition of dazed thought. He went back to 
the beginning of their acquaintance, and care- 
fully reviewed every interview, every word and 
every particular, that he could. 

“ She never could have loved me ! ” he 
sighed at length. “ Perhaps she tried to — and 
it was fruitless ; she might have been interested 
in my conversational powers, but not in myself. 
Yet she gave me to understand that I could 
hope ! But that might have been an impulse, 
or it might have been that she pitied me so she 
could not tell me no. Yet, I fancied that she 
did love me ; that I read it in her every look 
and action, but how could I have expected it — 
I, a man of the world, stained with the sin and 
selfishness of the world ; she, so pure and so 
good ? Our happiness is ended. We have met 
for the last time. Well, such happiness was 
too great to be real and lasting. I cannot live 
and wander through this mean, selfish world 
of trouble and hypocrisy! I will die — die as 
I have lived, a free man and master of my own 


9 8 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


destiny ! ” Gilbert arose and paced slowly up 
and down 'his apartment. 

Reader ! do not be surprised that a man of 
the world like Gilbert should, without even 
mistrusting another cause for Ida’s strange 
conduct or making an attempt to change her 
resolution, accept her note as final. 

But true love is a species of insanity, and 
beautiful insanity too. Gilbert’s love was so 
great that it demanded reciprocity or nothing. 
In the excess of his pride and passion he was 
unreasonable. Thus it was that after he began 
to recover from the effects of Ida’s cruel note, he 
saw the worst and most hopeless side of the affair. 
In his terrible suffering he did not at first dream 
of any outside agency, because everything natu- 
rally pointed towards a passional cause. 

“ Love,” argued Gilbert, “ can never be 
forced. It is a wild-flower, and not a hot- 
house plant. Had Ida loved me at any time, 
no external circumstances could have destroyed 
that love, and therefore she would love me still. 
On the other hand, had she never loved me, — 


DESPAIR. 


99 


as I now think, — nothing I ever could have 
done would have overcome her natural tenden- 
cies. A woman never can be won. A fool only 
will ever try to reason indifference into love. 
If love is a pre-existent union between two of 
the opposite sex, then love at first sight is the 
only true love I know! Alas! into what trouble 
has my wild infatuation led me, when in the first 
eager glances of Ida’s curiosity at the sight of 
a stranger I imagined that she cared for me. 
Fool, poor fool that I have been ! ” And, in 
his great agony, the strong man threw himself 
on the lounge and wept long and bitterly over 
this the last withered flower of his wild, un- 
happy, and passionate youth. 

He arose at length. He was pale and weak. 
He staggered to the table, sat down, and wrote 
these words, and these only, to Ida : — 

Dear Girl, — Forever farewell. Always yours, and 
yours alone. Gilbert. 

Then folding his arms on the table and leaning 
his head on them, he sat in that position, in- 


100 ' 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


different to everything, till it began to grow 
dark, then he arose. Ida lost, gone from him 
forever. What cared he now for science, fame, 
or wealth ? His life that day had become deso- 
late. A long and weary life of trouble and con- 
test seemed to loom up before him with terrible 
strength, and he asked himself the questions 
that he had asked so many times before in the 
dark periods of his checkered career, and which 
you perhaps, reader, have asked yourself — 
“ Why suffer to live ? Why live to suffer ? ” 
and then he pondered over the great question, 
“ Is the battle of life worth fighting ? ” and 
answered himself no, not for him at least. 

He again seated himself at his table and 
wrote lovingly and kindly to his friends. So 
while with one hand he clutched the bony 
fingers of Death, the other was stretched out in 
friendship. He would die, not madly but 
calmly, in sorrow and in disappointment. 

This is a part of what he wrote to Royal : — 

“An inseparable barrier exists between Ida 
and myself. What is there left for me ? I 


DESPA TR. 


101 


have seen paradise : the portals are closed to 
me. I can only die. 

“To me, philosopher and author of a school 
yet in its infancy, — the school of passional, 
intellectual, and moral harmony, — the idea is 
natural. I never feared death.” 

Then taking from the table drawer a small 
phial marked morphine and which contained 
about fifteen grains, he removed the cork. 

“ A second’s resolution, and all my pains and 
troubles are at an end, and this strange, sensi- 
tive, and miserable organization which is 
known here as Gilbert Thorndyke is a thing of 
the past, a topic for the daily papers, per- 
haps more, a subject for the dissecting 
student.” 

He stood up, eying the little bottle with 
evident satisfaction, for there is an absolute 
satisfaction about death, that is fascinating. 

No worldly after-thoughts are involved. The 
result, being unknown entirely, must be left to 
take care of itself. It is a solution of every 
difficulty ; it is, in short, a complete measure. 


102 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


To die means to die, and dead men are never 
obliged to answer any questions. 

Two thoughts generally come to those that 
contemplate suicide. One is, What is going to 
become of them in the future world, which lies 
hidden beyond the dark curtain of shadows, 
which we call death ? The other is the foolish 
idea of what people will say and think of them 
and their act afterwards. 

What if Ida loved him after all ? What if 
perhaps she did not yet fully understand him ? 
What if some secret enemy had been at work ? 
How would it do to write to Ida and entreat — 
no, demand — an interview or at the least an 
explanation ? 

No, these were foolish thoughts. Before him 
was her letter distinctly enough denying fur- 
ther acquaintance, casting him off with indiffer- 
ence and heartlessness. It told enough. A 
woman who had ever felt one atom of love for 
a man could never cast him off in such a man- 
ner. His pride, too, told him that he would 
only be received with contempt. 


DESPAIR. 


103 


“I have never known what happiness is,” 
said Gilbert to himself ; “ nothing but disap- 
pointment after disappointment, sorrow after 
’ sorrow. And yet, O Ida, beautiful Ida, what a 
paradise on earth we two might have had if 
you had but ” — 

Gilbert did not complete the sentence. He 
was too much overcome at the great happiness 
which had been so near to him and yet so far. 
For only those who, in the bright springtime of 
life, have truly loved and suddenly seen an 
impassable grief open between them and happi- 
ness can realize Gilbert Thorndyke’s disap- 
pointment. All the dreams of his life, all his 
future hopes, were based on his love for Ida 
Sherman. This love had failed him ; the en- 
chanted castle which hope had built had crum- 
bled and fallen, burying him in its ruins. He 
sank into his chair and raised the bottle to his 
lips; another moment and Gilbert Thorndyke 
would have carried out his design. Suddenly 
a groan was heard coming from Joe’s room. It 
is strange, however cleverly we carve the mys- 


104 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


terious block of which our lives are made, the 
black vein of destiny ever reappears in it. 
Gilbert, even in his own terrible state of mind, 
deferred his intention in order to do an act of 
kindness to a suffering man. He laid the 
bottle down and hastened into the sick man’s 
room. He found him restless and wishing a 
glass of water, which he went for and on his 
return handed him. 

“ How kind you have been to me,” said the 
unfortunate man. “ And yet perhaps you would 
not be if you only knew what I had been.” 

“ I do not know or care ; you are suffering, 
and that is sufficient reason why I should assist 
you.” 

“ When I get well I will show my gratitude 
to you. I will devote myself to your service.” 

‘‘You can never do me a service,” answered 
Gilbert, “ for I am soon to take a long journey ; 
how long, I cannot say.” 

“ Where ? What do you mean ? ” said Joe, 
starting up. 

“ I mean that inside of ten minutes I shall 
be a corpse.” 


DESPAIR. 


105 


“ Shoot yourself ? ” asked Joe. “ Why ? ” 

“ No, not shoot myself. A better way. I 
am too miserable to live. I wish to die.” 

“You too miserable to live? then what am 
I ? ” said Joe, who had a blunt logic of his own, 
which Royal’s blow had luckily not disturbed. 
“Are you strapped?” asked Joe, “for if you 
are, wait until I get well, and I will get the 
rocks for you. No matter how ; that is my 
business. Men must live.” 

“Then you would commit crime for me, my 
friend ? ” said Gilbert, with a choking feeling 
in his throat, for he felt he still had one true 
friend. 

“ Why not ? You stood by me when I was 
hurt trying to injure you, and I am not the 
man to forget a favor.” 

“ But I must leave you. Good-night.” 

“But, Mr. Thorndyke ! ” cried Joe, at his 
wits’ ends, “ what am I going to do ? ” 

“That’s so,” thought Gilbert, “and my poor 
friend Mrs. Wedger ! It is going to put her in 
a bad fix ; besides, I owe her a hundred dol- 


io6 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


lars.” Gilbert returned to his room and once 
more raised the poison to his mouth, when sud- 
denly he heard a step behind him, and the 
bottle was violently seized and dashed against 
the hearth-stone, breaking it into hundreds of 
pieces. 

Gilbert turned quickly, and found himself 
confronted by Royal. 

“ How did you get in at this time ? ” said 
Gilbert in astonishment. 

“ I simply told the servant that I wished to 
come directly to your apartments. I was 
afraid something was wrong.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ Because you promised to meet me at the 
Quincy House, and I never knew you to break 
your word before.” 

“ Please excuse me,” said Gilbert, “ I forgot 
everything about it, but I can never thank you 
for your interference.” 

“ Tell me everything,” said Royal briefly. 

So Gilbert told him all. In such cases, 
when the mind is so burdened, it is a great 


DESPAIR. 


107 


relief to find a friend that you can put confi- 
dence in and that will sympathize with you. 
Royal was such a one. What there was about 
him that made you love him, I cannot tell. I 
can describe his complexion, his features, his 
figure ; but the irresistible charm about him, I 
cannot. Every one liked him. Every one 
trusted him. To the rich and the poor he was 
equally courteous, kind and polite to all, — one 
of nature’s born noblemen. With his agree- 
able manners were united an unusually hand- 
some and well-knit form, always dressed in 
perfect taste, and that face which belongs to 
every man of the bold, breezy style of beauty. 
His disposition was frank, cheerful, and kind. 
Since their college days he had been Gilbert’s 
firm and trusted friend. 

Royal listened carefully to all Gilbert said, 
making no remarks until he had finished ; then 
he said all that ingenuity could suggest, to 
cheer his friend. “ Give me time,” he said, 
“and I will find out the cause, and we will 
remedy it. Promise me, old friend, that you 


108 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

will abandon your rash intentions until I see 
you again. It will come out all right in time.” 
Royal well knew that could he once succeed in 
obtaining his friend’s promise, Gilbert would 
die sooner than break his word. Gilbert 
promised, and Royal left the room as quietly 
as he had entered it. 

Gilbert, who had scarcely tasted food since 
breakfast, fell, dressed as he was, on the cabi- 
net-bed that he had used since his wounded 
guest had been brought to his rooms, and soon 
fell into an uneasy slumber. He arose in the 
morning, feeling much better than he had 
expected. 

He stepped in to see Joe, who was improv- 
ing fast, and soon persuaded him that the 
affair of the night before was a slight joke in 
order to test his friendship. 

The next few days dragged wearily by. Gil- 
bert was hurriedly making preparations to 
leave the city. Where to go, he knew not ; 
only to get away as far as he could from so 
many things that reminded him of his lost idol. 


DESPAIR. 


109 


Once he was walking up Washington Street 
when he saw her seated in her uncle’s coupe, 
in front of Jordan, Marsh & Co.’s. But Gilbert’s 
bow was met by a look of cool disdain, and no 
accident occurred to provoke or excuse a closer 
interview. 

Thus it was that these two gifted young 
people were separated by a vast wall. Of this 
wall Maude Dexter was the triumphant archi- 
tect, — she and her guilty admirer and accom- 
plice, the counterfeiter, Richard Arkwright. 


r io 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER XI. 

IN THE LIBRARY. 

FEW evenings after Gilbert received the 
letter from Ida, she was seated in the 
library of the Dexter mansion reading, while 
her uncle sat at a desk near by, writing. Sud- 
denly he threw down his pen, and leaning 
back in his chair, said abruptly, — 

“ Ida, what has become of your friend Mr. 
Thorndyke ? I have not seen him for some 
time.” 

“ I do not know.” 

“ Has he not been here lately ?” 

“ No, uncle.” 

“ Why is it that he does not come ? I would 
like to see him. A friend of mine, George 
Mason, is very much interested in a work of 
science of his. You know George Mason? ” 

“Yes, uncle.” 


IN THE LIBRARY. 


Ill 

Ida spoke in a sweet, low tone of voice, try- 
ing to conceal her feelings from her uncle, 
whom she did not care to know about this 
affair, notwithstanding her intense affection for 
him for his kindness and unbounded generosity 
to her in the past. 

“ They say George Mason is worth two mil- 
lions,” continued Mr. Dexter. “ He also has 
a daughter that would prove a great catch for 
this erratic friend of yours.” 

Ida remained silent. Her uncle’s careless 
talk threw her into thoughts that were of the 
saddest and bitterest kind. She still felt an 
indefinable interest in the future of her adven- 
turous lover, in spite of her knowledge of his 
unworthiness. 

A woman who has once loved a man can 
never forget him entirely. 

“ Why are you so quiet ? ” asked Mr. Dexter 
suddenly, looking sharply at his niece, and con- 
tinuing, “ Now, come to think of it, it occurred 
to me that you did take quite an interest in Mr. 
Thorndyke.” 


2 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ I assure you, my dear uncle, that I do not 
care in the least for Mr. Thorndyke.” 

“You know, Ida, that you are fast arriving 
at that age when you will receive many offers 
from men of wealth and position. Now, I want 
to see you happy and contented ; and if you 
would be happier by marrying this young 
writer, why, I never will stand in the way.” 

Ida was so touched by his unselfishness that 
she rose and put her arm around his neck, and 
kissed his cheek, and said in a low voice — so 
low that it was almost a whisper, — 

“ Dear uncle, thank you, thank you with my 
whole heart, but you are mistaken. Mr. Thorn- 
dyke is only a mere acquaintance — nothing 
more whatever.” 

“All right,” said Mr. Dexter, “we will never 
mention the subject again.” 

And he never did. 

Just as he finished speaking, Maude entered 
the room. By a strange coincidence Mr. Rich- 
ard Arkwright was announced by the servant 
at the same time. 


IN THE LIBRARY. 


I 13 

“ Why ! Mr. Arkwright, how do you do ? ” 
said Mr. Dexter, rising and offering him his 
hand. “ I have not seen this evening’s paper. 
How is the market to-day ? Is Missouri Pacific 
off?” 

“ Missouri Pacific is up three points,” an- 
swered Arkwright ; “ I sold at a profit of eigh- 
teen hundred dollars.” 

“ Fortunate man you are, always on the right 
side of the market.” 

“ I hope so,” replied the alterer, counter- 
feiter, and admirer of Maude but enemy of 
Gilbert, with a peculiar look at Maude. 

That look did not escape the sharp eyes of 
Mr. Amos S. Dexter. 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


I 14 


CHAPTER XII. 


THE PACKAGE FROM GILBERT. 


^MLBERT had left Boston (where he went is 
to be told in another chapter). The day he 
sailed, a lady stood on the broad steps, ringing 
the doorbell at No. — Beacon Street ; on the 
servant opening the door, she inquired if Miss 
Ida Sherman lived there. On being told the 
affirmative, she asked to see her and was shown 
into the reception-room. On Ida’s entrance 
into the room, she arose, and placed in her 
hands a package carefully sealed. 

This lady was Mrs. Wedger, former landlady 
to Gilbert Thorndyke. 

“From whom is this package, madam?” 
asked Ida. 

“ From Mr. Thorndyke. He requested me 
to give it to you, and to no one else, myself, as 
he may never return to America,” 


THE PACKAGE FROM GILBERT. 


“5 

“ Did you know Mr. Thorndyke well?” 

“Very.” 

“And his wife also?” 

“ His wife ? He never was married.” 

“ Not married, nor divorced ? ” 

“ Never married, and of course never 
divorced. My dear young lady, please pardon 
the liberty I take as a stranger, but you do not 
know what you have lost.” 

“ Explain yourself, madam.” 

“ I mean that no woman could ever be 
loved with sincerer or deeper devotion than 
were you by Gilbert Thorndyke. He wept 
like a young child when he handed me this 
package, yet he is the proudest man I ever 
knew.” 

“ Madam, will you please be so kind as to 
leave me your address ? ” said Ida, trembling 
with agitation. “ I will call on you, if it is 
agreeable to you.” 

“ Certainly, I shall be pleased to see you at 
any time,” said Mrs. Wedger, giving her a 
penetrating look of pity. “ Good-afternoon.” 


Il6 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

“ Good-afternoon, madam.” 

Ida at once hurried upstairs to her room. 
She tore open the package with fingers quiver- 
ing with emotion ; she sat down, after having 
carefully locked the door to prevent intrusion, 
to read the following : 

My Dear Ida, — for such I ever shall call you, — I 
shudder when I realize how different your feelings are 
towards me. A secret instinct tells me that your cousin 
Maude has been the cause of your hatred for me. It 
may be mean, it may be unjust and show a want of gen- 
erosity, but in the depths of my own misery I cannot 
help but lay the cause upon another. But I forget my 
fatalism. All is now ended. I shall be far away when 
you read these lines, and years, perhaps many long, 
wearisome ones, may pass by before my return. Yet, if 
you only could give me the slightest cause to hope, and 
if there was the merest possibility of clearing away the 
mystery which has overshadowed and darkened our 
lives — mine at least — always remember that I am firm 
and immovable in my love towards you, and that love, 
while Gilbert Thorndyke lives and breathes, is yours and 
yours alone, Ida. 

In you I have found my beau ideal of feminine beauty 
and intelligence. I desire that you know me as I am and 


THE PACKAGE FROM GILBERT. 


117 


have been, not as a mere fragment of life. The highest 
source of happiness is love, but that is now surrounded by 
restrictions, tending towards baseness and crime. We 
live, O beautiful Ida, in a world of deception. We are 
indoctrinated from our infancy with absurd and supersti- 
tious prejudices, the result of ages of ignorance. I can have 
no respect for any doctrine the best reason for the truthful- 
ness of which is its age. We are taught to call one thing 
virtue and another thing vice, to leave all to the teachings 
of some one else, and to silence the voices from within. 
Our minds are narrowed by selfish fears, our intellects 
are cramped by antique fallacies, and our lives poisoned 
by conventional delusions. 

Therefore, against this world and civilization — which 
is a great failure — I have been and am yet a rebel. In 
the brief history of my life accompanying this note I have 
written what I believe to be the truth, without false pride 
on the one hand or false modesty on the other. Read, 
fair girl, and you will then understand better the character 
of the man who had boldness to offer you his love. 

Yours through all eternity, 

Gilbert. 

After reading every word carefully once, she 
turned it over and slowly read it again. Ida 
then opened the second envelope, and, throw- 


1 8 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


ing a light shawl over her shoulders, resumed 
her chair near the open window to read a 
sketch of Gilbert Thorndyke’s life. 

Reader, our chapters have been short ones : 
prepare yourself for a long one. 


gilbert’s past life. 


1 19 


CHAPTER XIII. 

gilbert’s past life. 

my early childhood my recollections are 
somewhat obscure. I know I was born 
on the water during the return voyage of my 
parents from America, which they visited soon 
after their marriage. I never knew a brother’s 
love, but I had one little sister two years my 
junior, a beautiful child with fair complexion, 
light hair, and blue eyes. I loved her with all 
the affection that a loving brother can feel for 
a sister. We had no secrets that were not 
mutual. We confided to one another all our 
innermost thoughts and fancies. Regarding 
my father I will say but little. He was a tall, 
handsome man with dark hair and eyes. His 
disposition was proud and overbearing. While 
he naturally was selfish he was at times gener- 
ous. Before my birth he inherited a large 


120 


CxILBERT THORNDYKE. 


estate by the death of an uncle, which placed 
him in very independent circumstances. 

My mother was entirely different in every 
possible way. My sister resembled her. She 
also was fair, blue-eyed, and gentle. She was a 
great lover of the fine arts, and it was probably 
from her that I inherited my literary talent to 
the extent I did. We lived, until I was nearly 
six years of age, in Kensington, a suburb of 
London, when a sudden and an unaccountable 
freak of my father’s decided him to remove to 
America. He did so and purchased a beautiful 
house on Fifth Avenue in New York City. A 
fortune was spent in furnishing it in princely 
style, and it soon became the attraction of 
many distinguished people. For a long time 
my young life ran smoothly and joyously on 
until the fatal day occurred that was to be the 
forerunner of so much misfortune to me. 

My mother, one day, when apparently in good 
health, was suddenly taken with a chill, which 
rapidly developed into that dread disease pneu- 
monia. Despite all that medical skill could 


gilbert’s past life. 


12 


suggest, inside of three days she died, and I 
lost one of the most precious of God’s gifts, a 
loving and devoted mother. I was then nearly 
ten years old, but the terrible grief I suffered 
will never be effaced from my memory. She 
was interred in Greenwood Cemetery, beneath a 
wilderness of flowers, and a costly monument 
marks the spot where she sleeps the sleep of 
eternal rest. Soon, very soon I was called 
again to mourn another loss, that of my sister, 
who passed away within a year of the death of 
my mother. Thus I was left almost alone in the 
world, for I did not see much of my father, who 
seemed to have lost all his affection for me. I 
was placed in the care of an English tutor, a 
graduate of Oxford, I believe, who, one day, for 
some reason unknown to me, displeased my 
stern parent, who promptly discharged him. 
A few mornings after the tutor’s departure, my 
father entered my room, and requested me to 
prepare for boarding-school. We left that after- 
noon for B , a small town in the southern 

part of Connecticut, where we arrived after a 


122 


GILBERT THOKNDYKE. 


few hours’ journey. We were at once shown 
into the presence of the principal, Mr. North, 
who received us with a deference that was 
almost fawning. Their business was soon fin- 
ished, and my father took his departure. 

My school days I must not linger over too 
long, or I shall never be able to reach the 
events which alone can give any original inter- 
est to these hastily written pages of my life. 

I entered into all the studies and sports of 
the school with a zeal that soon earned for me 
the regard of the teachers and schoolmates 
alike. In six months I was at the head of my 
class. 

The programme of the day was : arise at six, 
dress till half-past ; breakfast ; study eight to 
twelve ; two hours for recreation and dinner ; 
recite two to four ; play until eight, with supper 
meantime. At nine the great bell would ring, 
and we were all expected to retire. 

I had been only some few months at B 

when my father came to see me. According 


gilbert’s past life. 


123 


to the custom of the school, I was dressed in 
my best clothes from head to foot, and then 
sent into the reception-room. My father re- 
ceived me with coolness. 

“ We will take a short walk, towards the 
hotel,” he said. 

After we left the building, neither spoke for 
some time ; finally he said with an apparent 
effort, — 

“ I have come to tell you this — for you may 
as well know it now — the fact is, I am married 
again.” 

That was all he said. 

My brain refused at first to comprehend it — 
I felt confused and dull — I could say nothing, 
but walked along by his side until the hotel was 
reached. 

In the parlor sat a lady of perhaps thirty- 
four years of age, dressed in green satin. She 
was of that coarse style of beauty and had the 
same strange, guilty look which in years long 
after I always observed in the fashionable demi- 
monde of Paris, Vienna, and other great Euro- 


124 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


pean capitals. She looked and acted as though 
she were out of her sphere. Unfortunate 
woman ! How little she knew what a dark 
future lay before her ; that her whole life was 
to be one long battle for admission into society, 
which could and would only despise her. 

Young as I then was, I knew only too well 
that by this marriage, instead of finding a 
mother, I had lost a father. He told me that 
he intended to dispose of all his property in this 
country and to make his future home in Paris. I 

was to remain at B , until fitted for college. 

He would pay all my bills, and provide me with 
spending money, which would increase as I grew 
older. Any business or mail would be trans- 
acted and received through the banking firm of 
Henry Gould & Son of New York. 

With a few words and a farewell he left me. 
Many years were to elapse before we again 
met. 

I returned to my dull routine of study, varied 
only by an occasional trip to New York, always 
accompanied by one of the professors. 


gilbert’s past life. 


125 


I studied hard and faithfully while at school. 
If boys ever worked we did, for I really fail to 
see how we could have done more and sur- 
vived the operation. 

At times I was so lonesome I was on the 
point of running away and making my fortune 
as boys I had read of did. At one time, I re- 
member, our plans were all made ; we saved our 
pocket-money and were to make our way to the 
Sound and watch our opportunity to join a band 
of smugglers, but it fell through from lack of 
discretion on the part of one of the boys. 

Of my treatment while there I cannot com- 
plain. I have never doubted but that Mr. 
North tried to the best of his feeble ability to 
prepare my mind for the great struggle of life, 
and to infuse into me the learning which he had 
acquired by so much patient and tedious toil. I 
acknowledge I would to this day put myself out 
a great deal to do the poor old man a kindness. 
But I have often pondered why it is that school- 
masters understand human nature so poorly. 
It must be because this noble and important 


26 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


avocation is not appreciated socially at its real 
value. Too often, to keep school is a desperate 
resource to keep the wolf from the door. 

But to return to my narrative : When I was 
sixteen years of age, I attained the highest 
classical and mathematical honors, and I am 
vain enough to think that I should have taken 
the prize as the best dancer had I not been so 
foolish as to one afternoon kiss the pretty 
little daughter of Monsieur Panton, the dancing- 
master. 

The next year, I passed successfully the ex- 
aminations for entrance to Harvard University, 
at Cambridge, Mass. My life there was the 
customary one led by the average student. It 
was at Harvard that I first met Royal Hall, who 
was my chum for four years, and whose friend- 
ship I still retain. These four years were years 
of study, mingled with charming associations. 

During one of our summer vacations, Royal 
and myself passed a few weeks in Vermont, 
on the shore of that beautiful and historical 


gilbert’s past life. 127 

Lake Champlain. My first love I found there : 
Grace, the only daughter of the landlord of 
the hotel where we boarded. 

Then a new life was revealed to me. I had 
imagined what love was, now I knew. I gazed 
and dreamed and formed plans for the future. 
Life began to assume a form. With every day 
the duties and cares of manhood grew upon me. 
I was then in the first flush of early manhood, 
with all the bloom of youthful pride and vigor. 
My complexion was as pure and fresh as a 
rose, my figure supple and strong. I did not 
know then what it was to live. 

Most of my time was passed with Grace, and 
on my return to Cambridge I wrote to her 
every day, and soon worked my imagination 
up to the idea that no love had ever been 
so strong or so enduring as mine. 

Six months later I was infatuated with a 
pretty girl who sold ribbons in one of the 
large dry-goods stores of Boston, and Grace 
was forgotten. 

Up to tbi? period I had led a life of prepara- 


128 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


tion. I bad been a child of fortune, raised in 
the lap of luxury (for my father, whom I had 
not seen since the afternoon at the hotel, had 
been very lavish in his allowance) ; but if the 
early shadows of my domestic troubles had 
thrown a gloom over my brilliant student 
career, it needed but the presentiment of 
future sorrows to afflict me with that melan- 
choly which subsequently, at times, has been 
my companion. 

Am I alone, an example ? I know not. I 
hope that few have suffered as I. 

Pardon me, dear Ida, if I pause here to make 
one remark, profound and indisputable, in 
answer to the cant which replies to the agony 
expressed by the great thinkers of the earth, 
by a trivial reference to the sufferings of beings 
of inferior intelligence. 

We suffer in proportion to the capacity to 
suffer. The loftiest intellects are subject to 
tortures of which the stupid are insusceptible. 
Feeble natures, under a certain amount of 
pain, give way; sickness or death come tg 


gilbert’s past life. 


29 


their relief; but to the strong the awful privi- 
lege to bear unbroken these trials is given. 

Well, I graduated from college. I was going 
abroad to finish an education that destined a 
man to fortune and high social position. I 
arrived in Paris, and met with a cold recep- 
tion at my father’s house. Not a week elapsed 
before I sought lodgings outside. I was with- 
out a home. I felt myself a stranger in a great 
city. It was my experience yet to learn how 
lonely a person can be, surrounded by luxuries, 
among strangers. 

Already I felt my dependence on my father 
to be an oppression. In my loneliness I turned 
my attention to literature. How well I remem- 
ber my first attempt as a literatus ! Imagining 
novel-writing an easy task, in my utter igno- 
rance of the difficult art, I soon scribbled off 
a dozen chapters, with as many different titles 
for the book that, in my mind, was to bring 
me in fame and fortune. I sent the manu- 
script to a prominent publisher in London, and 
was dismayed to receive it back in a few weeks, 


130 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


with the words, “ Respectfully declined.” I 
was not discouraged, but wrote an article for 
a magazine, which, to my delight, was accepted, 
and I was notified it would be published in due 
time. I was intoxicated by my success. 

My father, who had regarded my attempts 
with mingled surprise and annoyance, informed 
me that if I persisted in my profession, he 
would disown me forever, doubtless encouraged 
to do so by my stepmother, who was my 
secret and determined enemy. What little 
affection my father e'ver possessed for me 
was thus fast being destroyed. My books 
now were my only friends. I studied and 
wrote. All my pride and independence as- 
serted themselves. I separated from my 
father in anger, and have to this day never 
seen or heard from him. Perhaps I may yet 
live to enjoy the vast wealth which rightfully 
belongs to me, and spend it in relieving honest 
worth and suffering genius ; but for the pres- 
ent I, the heir and hope of my race, must 
wander in sorrow and poverty over the face 


gilbert’s past life. 


131 

of the earth, with no fortune but my courage, 
and no companion but my knowledge, — a friend 
and treasure of which death alone can rob me. 

From Paris I went to Vienna, where I lived 
in humble circumstances, boarding with a 
German named Johann Schwarz. It was at 
Herr Schwarz’s house that I had an oppor- 
tunity to see what an unfortunate affair an 
unhappy marriage is. Why are people so 
stupid as not to understand that the moment 
a man and wife cease to be happy in each 
other’s society, then that moment should be 
the time for separation ? Why is marriage, 
which should be a union, for the noblest joys, 
so often converted into slavery and punish- 
ment ? To throw obstacles in the way of 
divorce, or endeavor to prevent it, is a mistake. 
There is but one great law that should bind 
man and wife together, — the law of love. 
Let those who love be united, those who hate 
be parted. All other systems are erroneous, 
the superstitions of ages past. 


132 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


From Vienna I went directly to London, 
where I supported myself mainly through the 
pawnbroker, who soon owned books, pictures, 
and other souvenirs of mine. 

But I was yet young. One day I awoke to 
myself, and resolved to turn schoolmaster. 
With the small proceeds of a manuscript, I 
rented a couple of rooms in a respectable part 
of the city, and issued cards — I owe the 
printer still — proclaiming that Gilbert Thorn- 
dyke, A.M., LL.D., graduate of Harvard Uni- 
versity, U.S.A., would condescend to receive 
a limited number of select pupils in Latin, 
Greek, and the sciences; French, German, 
and painting extra. I could not but smile 
as I wrote the last, for I was, of course, the 
only professor. I had after a time pupils 
enough to barely keep body and soul to- 
gether ; still, I lived with a certain kind of 
determined pride. My greatest sufferings, 
these years of such extreme poverty and 
wretchedness, were the appeals of the poor 
whom I could not assist. At the end of two 


GILBERT'S PAST LIFE. 


133 

years I had become a better financier, so I did 
not suffer quite as much. 

I had had so much else to think about that 
my flirtations had been very limited, when one 
day the janitor’s daughter brought a note to 
my rooms. She was a girl of about seventeen, 
and as beautiful as a fairy. I loved the fair 
stranger at our first meeting. The second 
time we met, I felt the thrill which love and 
real love alone can inspire. She was tall, but 
she looked well, owing to the fine proportions 
of her figure. If, Ida, you wish to know how 
beautiful she was, picture a reflection of your- 
self, but with hazel eyes instead of blue, 
standing like a Grecian statue before you, and 
you will then see her as I first saw her. 

I asked her name. 

“Helene Davenport.” 

I repeated it with delight. We looked and 
loved. A few confused words ; a parting kiss, 
and Helene disappeared, leaving me happy — 
yes, happy for the first time for years. 

I could hardly believe my happiness to be 


134 


GILBERT TIIORN DYKE. 


lasting. I had always been so miserable from 
the cravings of one to love, that I hardly dared 
to think it real. Yet it was to be so. Helene 
came again, and from that day on our* love 
grew and our happiness increased. Thus 
matters continued until we became everything 
to each other. We were to be formally married, 
and the day had been appointed, when one of 
the most infernal conspiracies that ever had its 
origin in the human brain was formed, owing 
to the jealousy of her cousin. 

In a fit of rage and pride I saw Helene, who 
was also distracted almost beyond herself, and 
without making explanations or giving the 
details, which each seemed to think too undig- 
nified, we parted — the victims of plausible lies 
and our own unreasonableness. God alone 
knows what I suffered. 

While walking up the Strand one fine 
morning, soon after the above happened, I 
encountered my old chum and classmate, Royal ; 
— pride had kept me from corresponding with 
him. After a little persuasion on his part, I 


gilbert’s past life. 


135 


resolved to accompany him to America. We 
left England and arrived in New York, where 
for the next few years I supported myself fairly 
well in various ways, principally by contribu- 
tions to various scientific magazines. 


One more fact I wish to relate before closing 
this brief and hurriedly written sketch of my 
life. 

It was one Sunday that I was walking up 
Fifth Avenue, near Union Square, when I felt 
a hand touch my arm, and, turning quickly, 
perceived at my side a veiled lady, dressed in 
black. 

“Pard6n me,” I said, “I do not” — 

“ Not know me ?” said a voice that penetrated 
to my very soul. 

“ Helene Davenport ! ” I cried in bewilder- 
ment. 

“ It is I,” she answered with dignity. “ I 
desire to converse with you ; walk with me.” 

We walked along together, she unravelling 
the mystery of our quarrel, and telling me of 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


136 

the mean deception that had been resorted to 
in order to separate us. 

We had by this time arrived opposite my 
rooms, and I invited her to enter. We sat 
down opposite each other, both sad and uneasy. 

“Helene!” I said, “if you had only known 
how much I loved you ! ” 

“ Loved ?” she asked. 

Briefly as she spoke, I understood all ; in 
another instant she was in my arms. 

“Helene,” I said, “we will get married at 
once ! ” 

“ It is too late,” she said sadly ; “ I am 
already married. But, Gilbert, in my heart I 
have always been true to you.” 

I have not much more to say of her. 

Consumption ! Blaster of hopes ! Destroyer 
of youth ! I will not, cannot trace its deadly 
work. 

She died in my arms, and with my last 
remaining dollars I buried her. 


GILBERT S PAST LIFE. 


137 


I was now more lonely than ever. A mere 
trifle decided my destiny ; for fate is fate, and 
the man who runs runs quickest into it. I 
resolved to leave New York and settle in 
Boston, which I did. 

But the time is now drawing near for me to 
bring these memoirs to a close, so of the rest 
of my career I will speak in a few lines. I have 
travelled and seen much. I have filled desirable 
positions for the government. I have been at 
the head of a large commission house. I have 
been editor of magazines, and have studied no 
less than three regular professions. 

It is true that I am now too sensible to suffer, 
but Boston has not at all times been kind and 
friendly to me. 

Such, O Ida, peerless girl ! is but a very 
brief outline of my history. Some day I may 
fill in the details that I have passed over so 
hastily in these pages. Such as I have written 
is true. You can now know me as I am and 
have been. While those around you may 
wear the mask of cant and hypocrisy, I stand 


I38 GILBERT THORN DYKE. 

before you as a man who has lived, loved, and 
suffered. 

Fare thee well, my idol ! I have been 
rejected and condemned, perhaps unjustly, 
perhaps not. Time alone can tell. 

Again fare thee well. I feel that some day I 
may return ; it may be after many, many years. 

Gilbert Thorndyke. 

For long hours Ida sat pondering over the 
strange and sad story of her former lover’s life. 

It was evident that at times he had led any- 
thing but a saintly or correct life, but was it not 
owing somewhat to the fact that he had never 
had the advantages of a mother’s care and 
love? Should she not find some excuse in 
that ? 

Then she remembered many proofs of his 
delicate and tender love ; how generous, how 
devoted he had been to her ; and in spite of 
herself she found the tears rolling down her 
flushed cheeks. 

“ He is far away,” she murmured, “ gone, it 


gilbert’s past life. 


139 


may be, for ever and ever ! Oh, if I had only 
known what I now know! Why could I not 
have received this package before the steamer 
left, — one day even !” But a voice whispered 
to her, “ Too late — too late.” 


140 


GILBERT T1I0RNDYKE. 


CHAPTER XIV. 


MONTE CARLO. 


^EVERAL months have passed since Gilbert 
left Cambridge. Royal, that friend who 
had ever been so true to Gilbert, had persuaded 
him to accompany him abroad, paying all ex- 
penses, including those of Joe, who, ever 
since Gilbert’s kindness to him, had refused to 
separate from him — who had acted in the 
capacity of a favorite servant to both ; and 
there is no doubt but that he would have at 
any time laid down his life for either if the 
case required it. 

It is autumn — the beautiful autumn of 
Southern France. The three travellers had 
sailed from New York to Havre on the Bor- 
deaux line of steamers, thence proceeded 
directly to Paris, where they had spent a couple 
of months, Royal thinking that in the gayety 


MONTE CARLO. 


141 

and whirl of the great metropolis the memory 
of Ida would soon be effaced from Gilbert’s 
mind. But he was destined to be deceived ; 
although his friend never referred to the unfor- 
tunate affair, it was still as fresh in Gilbert’s 
mind as ever. They were now on their way to 
Italy, where Royal desired to spend the winter, 
intending to stop over for a few days at Monte 
Carlo, for Royal was not above a certain weak- 
ness of mankind. The train has left the great 
station on the Boulevard Mazas, of the Paris, 
Marseilles & Lyons Railway, and is now under 
full speed for Lyons. Only four stops of any 
length will be made between Paris and the city 
so famous for the manufacturing of silks : at 
Montereau, Tonnerre, Dijon, and Macon. 
Royal has settled himself comfortably in his 
seat and is reading the latest New York papers. 
Gilbert is sitting quietly, evidently in deep 
thought, while Joe is looking out the window 
at the flying scenery so new and strange to 
him. Royal and the ex-circus-performer are 
looking finely, but Gilbert’s face does not 


42 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


wear the free and natural expression that the 
others do. 

Thus the time speeds by until the train 
arrives at Lyons, where they drive at once to 
the Hotel de l’Europe, where they take supper 
and retire to sleep until awakened by the por- 
ter in time for the four a.m. train. Royal and 
his friends are aroused the next morning 
soon after three, and, after a breakfast of hot 
rolls and coffee, take the carriage that is to 
convey them to the Nice train. 

They were soon safely ensconced in the 
coaches, well wrapped up by the guard in a 
lot of railroad rugs that he brings to them 
warmed by the waiting-room fires. 

“ Let’s try to sleep until we reach Avignon 
at eight, and there we will find some better 
breakfast awaiting us, which I took the precau- 
tion to order by telegraph,” said Royal. 

With that he pulls his cap down over his 
eyes and is soon fast asleep ; for Royal is one 
of those fortunate individuals that can sleep 
under all circumstances. The others fall to 


MONTE CARLO. 


M3 


meditating, and they, too, are soon asleep. 
When they awake it is daylight, and the sun is 
shining brightly upon the waters of the great 
Rhone, that flows by them to the sea. 

When they arrive at Avignon they find as 
good a meal, both in attendance and menu , as 
one could desire. Soon the train is off again 
for Marseilles, which will be reached about 
eleven, moving down through the beautiful 
valley of the Rhone with its olive plantations 
and vine-clad hills ; then eastward across the 
country. All the party now seem to be in first- 
class spirits. Royal, feeling musical, sings one 
of the latest French songs — “ Petits amoureux 
aux plumes ” (Little feathered lovers). 

“ Petits amoureux aux plumes, 

Enfants d’un brillant s6jour, 

Vous ignorez l’amertume, 

Vous parlez souvent d’amour ; 

Vous m6prisez la dorure, 

Les salons, et les bijoux ; 

Vous ch^rissez la Nature, 

Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous! 


144 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Voyez la-bas, dans cette 6glise, 

Aupr&s d’un confessional, 

Le pretre, qui veut faire croire & Lise, 

Qu’un baiser est un grand mal; 

Pour prover t\ la mignonne 
Qu’un baiser bien fait, bien doux, 

N’a jamais damn6 personne, 

Petits oiseaux, becquetez-vous ! ” 1 

Every one seemed to know it by heart. At 
the stations little children only five or six years 
old were singing it. There were pretty lines 
in it, although two out of its four stanzas were 
ordinary enough, and it must have been the air 

1 “ Little feathered lovers, cooing, 

Children of the radiant air, 

Sweet your speech — the speech of wooing — 

Ye have ne’er a grief to bear ! 

Gilded ease and jewelled fashion 
Never own a charm for you ; 

Ye love Nature’s truth with passion, 

Pretty birdlings, bill and coo ! 

“See that priest who, Lise confessing, 

Wants to make the girl believe 
That a kiss without a blessing 
Is a fault for which to grieve 1 
Now to prove, to his vexation, 

That a tender kiss and true 
Never caused a soul’s damnation, 

Pretty birdliugs, bill and coo 1 ” 


MONTE CARLO. 


145 


rather than the words that accounted for its 
great popularity. When Royal had finished his 
song, the coaches were drawing into Marseilles. 
A few minutes’ stop, then on to Nice, along 
the shores of the blue Mediterranean Sea, 
through Toulon, where they find themselves 
that evening. They stop at the Hotelfde^ 
Anglais. Royal writes some letters home to 
friends; but Gilbert and Joe walk ouf, as they 
desire to see the beautiful gardens of Nice by 
moonlight. 

The next day, a carriage was taken for 
Monaco. Monaco ! who has not heard of 
Monaco, the great gambling principality of all 
the earth, where princely fortunes are lost and 
won in a single day, where misery and joy walk 
hand in hand, where suicides are every-day 
occurrences ; where gambling is not confined 
to men alone, for women of all ages and ranks 
can be found at Monte Carlo ! As the three 
friends in whom we are so interested walk 
through the magnificent gardens of the Casino 
and enter it, the orchestra playing meanvyhils 


146 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


the most sublime music, Joe, who has never 
read of Monte Carlo, asks with surprise, — 

“ Do they allow women in the Casino to 
play ? ” 

“ Certainly ; women are among their best 
customers,” answered Royal and Gilbert to- 
gether. 

At one of the trente-et-quarante tables a 
little white-haired woman is sitting, with the 
piles of bank-notes and gold scattered around 
her in such confusion that you wonder how 
she knows which are hers. She is a duchess, 
who lost thirty-four hundred dollars in one 
night last year. She will continue to go there 
while her money lasts, or while she can borrow 
any from her friends. She plays recklessly, 
undaunted by the evil eyes fixed on her. 

As the trio move down towards the centre 
of the room, Gilbert turns to his friends and 
whispers, “ See, there is the notorious Madame 
Jauvet, who has played here for years, and is 
very lucky.” 

Royal and Joe look, and perceive, sitting at 


MONTE CARLO. 


147 


one of the long tables, a woman whom any one 
in the least experienced in the ways of the 
world would recognize as a fast character, 
playing with the utmost coolness and noncha- 
lance, smoking, in the meantime, a delicately 
flavored Russian cigarette. 

The croupiers looked at her disapprovingly, 
as if afraid she would break the bank. It was 
said that she won last year over eighty thou- 
sand dollars. 

At the same table, further down, a young 
girl is risking her all and losing, and then, 
with a look sad to see upon so young a face, 
searches vainly in her purse for another five- 
franc piece with which to try again. Is she 
going to learn wisdom from her defeat of to- 
day? Not at all. She has tasted of the poison 
which is working like madness in her brain, 
and if she cannot borrow she will perhaps 
pawn some of her dress or jewelry, and come 
again to-morrow, hoping to do better. Were 
she a man she might, at last, when irretriev- 
ably ruined, possibly kill herself, but she is 


I48 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

a woman, and, as such, holds her life more 
sacred. At the next table is a woman so 
blind or old, or both, that she does not know 
when she has lost or won, and has to be 
prompted by her friend, who tells her where 
to put her money, and when to pick it up. 

“ What a pitiable spectacle of womanhood, 
with her bleared eyes and shaking hands, 
which can scarcely hold the gold she is 
squandering so wantonly ! ” remarked Royal. 

“No more so to me than that fair young 
English girl next to her,” said Gilbert. 

Beside the old woman was a young girl 
who was making her first venture with a five- 
franc piece. She lost, but there were more in 
her purse, and with the exclamation, “ I must 
win,” she threw them down one after another, 
until she happened to strike a fortunate num- 
ber, and got back all the money she had lost, 
while the on-lookers thought it would have 
been far better for her if every drop of the 
ball had been against her. Gilbert, feeling an 
unusual interest in her, inquired of the crou- 


MONTE CARLO. 


149 


pier about her, who informed him that she 
had been coming there day after day. When 
she first came she was very pretty and sweet 
to look at, and apparently so fresh and inno- 
cent that she attracted his attention at once, 
and he watched her as she became more and 
more accustomed to the place, and, alas ! more 
accustomed to the unhealthy moral atmosphere 
she was breathing. It seemed to take the 
freshness from her face, which became flushed 
and red with excitement, while her eyes had 
lost their shy, modest look, and met the eyes 
of those around her unhesitatingly. Gilbert 
pitied her, for he well knew that no girl could 
sit at a gambling-table, side by side and shoul- 
der to shoulder with some of the worst men 
and women in the world, and leave the place 
as pure as when she entered. 

“Do you see the old woman with a face 
like a Madonna, beside her ? ” asked Gilbert’s 
informer. “That’s her mother.” 

And there they were, day after day, night 
after night, winning and losing, losing and 


150 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

winning, and when Sunday came there was 
not a more devout worshipper than that young 
girl, who for days had been found at the tables ; 
and, saddest of all, their informer told them 
she was always there Sunday afternoon, almost 
before the prayers she had uttered in the morn- 
ing had died away on her lips. At Monte 
Carlo there is no Sunday, so far as the Casino 
is concerned. The concerts are free, and the 
play goes on as usual. The trains come loaded 
from Nice and Mentone, and the tables are 
just as well patronized with anxious, excited, 
feverish people, as if there \vere no God and 
no commandment to keep his Sabbath holy. 

“ Suppose you try your luck,” said Royal 
to Joe. “On what day of the month were you 
born ? ” 

Joe told him. 

“ Put these five napoleons on the number, — 
no, put on five of your own.” 

Joe did so, and in another minute found 
fifty napoleons added to his stake. 

“Try once more on the even chance,” said 


MONTE CARLO. 


151 

Gilbert. “ I have a presentiment that you will 
win. On the red.” 

Joe did so, apparently not caring whether 
he lost or won. Round and round went the 
little mill, whiz went the ball, till at last it 
settled in its place. 

Joe had won again. He picked up his gold 
in a careless way, and said nothing. He did 
not try again, well content to let well enough 
alone. 

Gilbert, who was beginning to loathe these 
deplorable sights, which he fully realized would 
only entail misery and remorse on all the 
players, begged his friends to depart, and they 
left the Casino for the hotel with the cry of 
the croupiers, “ Faites le jeu,” ringing in their 


ears. 


152 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER XV. 


THE STRANGE BEGGAR. 

evening of the same day described in 



the preceding chapter, Royal and Joe left 
the hotel for a drive. Gilbert, not caring to 
go, wandered out on the terrace through the 
beautiful gardens. The air was soft and balmy ; 
the sky blue and cloudless. He seated himself 
on one of the benches, watching the gay crowd 
pass him. The music of the band floats around 
him, but his thoughts are far away. He is 
thinking of Ida and wondering how she has 
been and if she ever thinks of him. When in 
this reverie, a hand is laid lightly on his 
shoulder, and Gilbert looks up to see one who 
he thinks is the most abject specimen of 
humanity he ever met. He was a tall, gaunt- 
looking, powerful man, with a long, ragged 
beard, hair long, unkempt^ and looking as 


THE STRANGE BEGGAR. 


153 


though it never had seen a comb. His nose 
was long and crooked. His mouth was large, 
and his lips thick and sensual, from between 
which a few yellow teeth could be seen when 
he spoke. His jaws were lean and his forehead 
narrow and wrinkled. But his eyes, covered 
with long tufted brows, were the striking part 
of his face, being very blue and bright. 

His limbs hung loosely from a body that 
might have been straight once, but now was 
terribly bent. 

His age might have been fifty or fifty-five. 
The wrinkles of his face seemed to be wrinkles 
of care and want rather than those of age. 
His clothes — well! I will try to describe them 
to you. A threadbare coat of a faded blue 
cloth, stained and torn, was tightly buttoned 
across his breast, in order to conceal, if possible, 
a dirty shirt (whose original color was hard to 
tell), and a torn vest almost buttonless. His 
pantaloons, of a shiny black, were about three 
sizes too small for him. 

His shoes were almost soleless, with heels 


154 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


worn down and run over — well, well, it was a 
sad joke to call them shoes at all ! They were 
indeed on their last legs, for it was a conun- 
drum how they could be taken off and put on 
again without going all to pieces. To crown 
the rest, on his head was an old felt hat, shape- 
less and tattered. 

Yet this poor wretch was one of the gam- 
blers of Monte Carlo, and a gambler too of no 
common kind. 

The man said humbly, yet squarely, — 

“ Sir, you are an American ; will you give 
me five francs ? ” 

“ With pleasure,” said Gilbert, rising and 
bowing courteously to the strange beggar (for 
Gilbert Thorndyke was kind and good to the 
most wretched of God’s creatures), “ but 1 fear 
I have not the change.” 

“ I am sorry you have not ! ” said the beggar 
gravely. 

“Your sorrow is to be expected,” said Gil- 
bert politely ; “ please to accept my apology for 
troubling you, but I will be obliged to ask you 


THE STRANGE BEGGAR. 


155 


to obtain the change from this,” handing him 
a napoleon. “ I regret I cannot give it all to 
you, but I cannot spare it.” 

“Thank you very much,” said the mendicant, 
rather puzzled by the unusual courtesy of the 
gentleman ; “ five francs is all I ask.” 

“You can go to the next street and get it 
changed,” quietly replied Gilbert. 

The beggar eyed Gilbert with a peculiar look 
that gave a very comical appearance to his 
strange visage. 

“ You are,” he said, “joking me.” 

“ Not at all ; here is the gold.” 

“ I will bring your change correctly,” said 
the beggar. “You put a good deal of confi- 
dence in me.” 

“ I have reasons for thinking you will 
return.” 

“ What are they ? ” 

“You seem intelligent, your frame is strong, 
you are about fifty, and — ” 

“ In rags, begging,” coolly completed the 
beggar. 


156 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ Exactly.” 

“ Well, sir ? ” 

“You must be either a rogue who has 
neglected his chances, or very honest.” 

“Please wait a few minutes till I return, and 
I wish to tell you something, sir,” said the 
man. 

Gilbert resumed his seat and patiently waited. 

A quarter of an hour — half an hour — an 
hour passed, and no beggar reappeared. 

The generous fellow looked at his watch 
every few minutes. Finally he decided to 
return to the hotel, vexed with himself at 
having lost so much in order to experiment in 
human nature. 

Just as he was leaving the terrace he was 
confronted by the beggar. 

“ I thought you had given me the go-by,” 
said Gilbert. 

“ Worse, I have stolen your money.” 

“ How’s that ? ” 

“I gambled in the Casino and lost it all,” 
said the man that Gilbert had benefited. “ I 


THE STRANGE BEGGAR. 


157 


tried roulette. Zounds ! if I had only tried 
quarante-et-trente I would surely have won. 
You will despise me now.” 

“No, I do not despise you.” 

“You will not have me punished for stealing 
your gold, then ? ” 

“ I do not believe in punishment. It was my 
own fault ; I trusted you.” 

“ Mr. ! ” said the gambling beggar, standing 
erect and folding his arms, “you have treated 
me better than any one ever did before ! What 
is your name ? ” 

“Gilbert Thorndyke.” 

“ Gilbert Thorndyke ! ” cried the beggar, 
recoiling a few steps. 

“That is what I said,” answered the other. 

“ Are you a rich man? ” 

“ Not rich enough to continue your friend- 
ship,” answered the great reader of characters, 
somewhat puzzled by the audacity of the 
beggar. 

Looking calmly . at Gilbert, the beggar said, 
“ Gilbert Thorndyke, I will make you a mil-, 
lionnaire.” 


158 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

“ Are you insane ? ” said Gilbert, looking 
sharply at him to see if he could detect any 
sign of madness. 

“The fools say so,” replied the wretch scorn- 
fully. “ Will you hear my story and judge for 
yourself ? ” 

“To-morrow morning at ten o’clock I will 
meet you here and listen to you,” said Gilbert, 
moving away, for the language and manner of 
the man impressed Gilbert profoundly. 


THE BEGGAR’S STORY. 


159 


CHAPTER XVI. 


THE BEGGAR S STORY. 

r J'TIE next morning was a very bright one at 
Monaco ; the sun rises gloriously in all 
its Mediterranean splendor, perhaps a little 
warm when not tempered by the gentle sea- 
breezes of the Riviera ; but, under the shade 
of the olive-trees and ilex the temperature is 
almost perfect, no cloud in the smiling heavens, 
and all nature looking fair and tempting. It 
would have been a beautiful sight to any one 
not entirely oblivious to the charms of nature, 
but to poor Gilbert, as he rises and dresses 
himself, looking out of his hotel window on the 
quiet scenes below, it seems only dull. He 
sighs, “ Another weary day ! ” and slowly de- 
scends to breakfast. 

After breakfasting he starts off alone for the 
terrace, politely declining an invitation from 


i6o 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


Royal to a morning sail. He seats himself on 
the same seat as on the evening before. Soon 
he sees the beggar coming, and, sitting down 
beside him, at once commences. 

“ I wish,” he said, “ to preface my narrative 
by the remark that the story I am about to tell 
you is a singular one ; but years ago you must 
have learned the great fact that this is a singu- 
lar world, that there are singular people in it, 
and that they do some singular things.” 

“ I fully agree with you in that respect,” said 
Gilbert, thinking of his own checkered career. 

The stranger’s language was so good and his 
manner so earnest that Gilbert felt at once 
deeply interested in the story he was about to 
tell. 

“I am by birth an American, as probably 
you have already surmised. My name is 
Edward Crosby. Forty-five years ago, or 
thereabouts, I was born in New York City. 
Both my parents dying when young, I fell into 
the care of an uncle, the only relative I had 
that was then living, so far as I have ever been 


THE BEGGAR’S STORY. l6l 

able to ascertain. He was a sea-captain, a 
bluff, hearty man, who, I must say, always 
treated me very well. He had never married, 
and I have often thought that might have been 
one reason why he grew so attached to me. 
I always accompanied him on all his voyages, 
and can truthfully say that I have visited every 
quarter of the globe, and am to-day more at 
home on the deck of a vessel than on land. 

“ Well, I continued with him until I was 
about thirty-two years old, when in the month 
of September, 187-, we arrived in New York 
Harbor on our return voyage from Australia. 
In sailor’s parlance, I had climbed through the 
cabin window and was first mate of the Eagle 
— that was the name of our fine bark. We 
were to remain in port about three weeks, 
unloading, and then loading for the China seas. 

“ One afternoon, a few days after our arrival, 
my uncle invited me to go and call on an old 
shipmate of his who lived on Mott Street, and 
who was very sick. We put on our best 
clothes and sallied out. We easily found the 


162 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


house, and, ascending the narrow and dirty 
stairway, knocked at the door of the miserable 
tenement where lived John Martin. Oh, Mr. 
Thorndyke, whatever did possess me to go 
there that beautiful day? That one little event, 
of apparently no consequence, changed my 
entire life, and is responsible for the poor, mis- 
erable, broken-down wretch you now see before 
you. But to go on. The door was opened by a 
black-eyed girl of rather attractive look. The 
first time I saw her I loved her ; why, I cannot 
tell, for throughout all I felt that she could not 
be trusted. She was Josephine Martin, the 
only child of John Martin and her father’s 
housekeeper. Mrs. Martin, it seems, had died 
long before. 

“ We found the old man in a bad condition. 
It was evident to us both that he could live but 
a short time. We did what was in our power 
to relieve his sufferings, and left promising to 
call again soon. 

“ To make a long story short, I went the 
next day and again and again. When he died 


THE BEGGAR'S STORY. 


/ i6 3 

I found I was madly infatuated with Josephine, 
or Josie, as she desired me to call her. I did 
not love her because of her goodness, for I saw 
many naturally vicious traits in her character, 
but was powerless to resist them. 

“Exactly a month from the day her father 
was buried, we were married by a minister of 
the gospel of the Baptist creed, named Goddard, 
and who I have reason to think is still living in 
New York. I gave up my position on board 
my uncle’s bark and resolved to settle down to 
the carpenter’s trade — a trade that I knew 
considerable about. All went well for a while 
until one night I returned from my work and 
found our pretty little home deserted. On the 
table was a note. I have always saved it.” 

Here the man took from his shirt bosom a 
roll of papers covered with a dirty oilskin. 
After untying the string, he unrolled the papers 
and selected a small faded piece of paper, 
which he passed to his listener with the laconic 
remark, “ Read it.” 

Gilbert, wondering what all this had to do 



164 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


with him, but thinking to humor the strange 
individual, took the paper and read the fol- 
lowing : 

Ed. — I am tired of you and find I love some one else 
better. Hope you will live through it, for you will never 
see me again. Josie. 

That was all. 

Gilbert handed it back to the man, who 
continued, — 

“ It made me all but crazy. Day in and day 
out I wandered through the streets of the 
great city in hopes of seeing or learning some- 
thing about my wife, but in vain. In despair, 
I gave up ever hearing from her again, and 
shipped as a common seaman for a cruise to 
South America. But my ambition was gone. 
I was indifferent to my duty and surroundings, 
and on reaching Janeiro was discharged. 

“ Since then I have earned my living in 
various ways. When I had saved up a little 
sum I would invariably lose it by gambling. 
Things went from bad to worse, until I got 


THE BEGGAR’S STORY. 


65 


very low. But my time is yet to come. I was 
destined again to see her to whom I attribute 
all my sufferings, under strange circumstances. 

“ It was in Paris, two years ago. I was stand- 
ing one evening in the Place de la Concorde, 
when a beautiful carriage passed me. I glanced 
up. Seated within were an old gentleman and 
a lady. Something about her face struck me. 
I looked again, when to my astonishment I 
recognized, notwithstanding the changes that 
time and wealth had made, my lost wife. In 
a minute the carriage would be out of sight, 
and I might lose her ; — lose her after all 
those long years of search ! never ! In the 
darkness I sprang up behind and clung for 
life, while being whirled rapidly through the 
dark streets. 

“ Finally, finding the carriage was about to 
stop, I leaped off, and from under the shadow 
of a neighboring tree I saw my wife descend 
and enter the mansion, for such the house was 
without doubt. 

“ By dint of tedious inquiry I ascertained that 


1 66 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


she was married, or pretended to be, to a very 
wealthy Englishman. That Englishman’s name 
was Frederick H. Thorndyke, your father.” 

Gilbert sat as if stunned. This man’s lawful 
wife his stepmother! could it be? He was 
too bewildered to speak; noticing which, the 
man continued : 

“ Under the guise and pretence of a mechanic 
I succeeded in forcing myself into her presence 
and demanded justice. She repudiated all 
knowledge of me. I threatened to inform her 
husband : it was of no avail. Finding it useless, 
I left the house, intending to divulge my secret 
to the man whose name she now bore, but on 
after-thoughts I decided differently. He was 
old and feeble, and must soon die ; I could 
then have my revenge better. I would wait 
patiently, — wait as I had done these long 
years. 

*‘1 came here, and about five months ago 
learned that Frederick Thorndyke had indeed 
gone to his long home. My time had come. 
I had saved up a little money by working 


THE BEGGAR’S STORY. 


I67 

around these grounds, and was to start the 
next day, when, as luck w_ould have it, the 
evening before, I wandered into the Casino 
and lost all. 

“ Gilbert Thorndyke, now is your chance. I 
am satisfied that Josephine Martin never was 
divorced from me, and, consequently, could 
never have legally married your erratic father. 
According to the laws of France, you are his 
legal heir, for I am satisfied there could be no 
will made in France that would allow a mistress 
to inherit in place of a son. 

“ I have our marriage certificate among these 
papers, and the proofs will be easy to obtain 
that will prove all I have said is true. Do you 
believe me ? Your face, the first time I looked 
upon it, attracted my attention, and when you 
told me your name I knew, by your resem- 
blance to your father, that you must be his 
son; and as the One above is my Judge, I 
swear I am telling you the truth.” 

It was not strange that Gilbert’s face had 
attracted the beggar’s attention, for it was one 


1 68 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

that would attract people. Though having a 
stern air, there was a certain gentleness in it 
which caused strangers to feel safe against 
an unkind retort to their advances. To this 
gift, he was indebted for many a strange tale, 
told him by people whom he met for the first 
time, and perhaps never saw again. 

A great student of human nature forms his 
gallery of studies, and completes his knowledge 
of mankind, by hearing stories from every type 
of human nature. 

As we know, Gilbert was a great character 
reader, so no wonder, then, that his attention 
was drawn to a face and figure so striking as 
those of Edward Crosby, the beggar and gambler 
of Monte Cailo. 

“ Do you believe me ? ” repeated the man, 
as Gilbert remained quiet, overcome by all that 
he had heard ; for he had made no inquiries 
concerning his father while in Paris, and con- 
sequently did not know of his death. 

“ I credit all that you have said,” replied 
Gilbert, looking the poor and miserable man 


THE BEGGAR’S STORY. 


169 


squarely in the eye, and seeing that he had 
spoken sanely and sincerely, “and will push 
my rights to the utmost.” 

“ Good ! ” said Edward Crosby, apparently 
much pleased. 

“ We will linger here no longer,” said Gil- 
bert. “ Come with me and take a bath, and 
I will buy you some better clothes.” 

In a couple of hours no one would ever have 
recognized, in the person walking to the hotel 
with Gilbert, Edward Crosby, the ex-beggar 
and gambler. 

Truly wonderful is the meeting of the ex- 
tremes in the great web of Destiny ! Man 
tries to disentangle its threads, gives up the 
fruitless task, observes, accepts, and wonders. 


170 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER XVII. 
fortune’s wheel turns strangely. 

H has happened in Boston meanwhile. 



Often we see families that to-day are 
happy, prosperous, and wealthy, but to-mor- 
row, as it were, are scattered, dead, and in 
poverty. 

So it was with the family of Mr. Amos S. 
Dexter. Within a week after Gilbert’s depart- 
ure with his friends for Europe, Mrs. Dexter, 
who had been for years an invalid, died sud- 
denly. Mr. Dexter began speculating in stocks 
to an enormous extent. His credit always had 
been classed, in commercial rates, as A-i. 
Nevertheless, a succession of heavy losses had 
brought him, in a few short months, to the 
verge of ruin. At first he could not realize 
it, but pressing demands being made upon 
him, which he could not meet, opened his eyes 


fortune’s wheel turns strangely. 1 7 i 

to the unfortunate condition of his finances. 
Collecting all the cash he could, he invested 
it by margins in the Atchison, Topeka & 
Santa F6 Railroad stock, as a last resort. 
Fate continued unkind to him. The shares 
dropped many points. His margins were 
swept away, and everything gone. This, 
coupled with the loss of his wife, to whom 
he was devoutly attached, caused temporary 
insanity. When in that condition, on retiring 
one night, he deliberately blew out his brains. 
The next morning the Boston newspapers 
announced his death by apoplexy. Maude, 
throughout all her father’s misfortunes, had 
shown a selfishness and an indifference that 
were simply astonishing. Everything had de- 
volved on Ida, who, after Gilbert’s departure, 
had lost ambition in everything, attending to 
her affairs in a sort of mechanical way. She 
scarcely ate or drank, and seldom spoke. This 
mysterious illness continued several weeks. 
She was convalescent when the death of her 
uncle occurred. 


172 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


Ida was now alone in the world — alone, 
without means and without friends. She had 
no relatives, and those she counted on as 
friends could not be found when adversity 
came. She had no intimate friends of her own 
sex, owing to her peculiar intellectual character. 

There was no one Ida knew, of whom she 
dared asked assistance. She sold all her books 
and jewelry to pay her board at the hotel. 
Richard Arkwright had paid all the funeral 
expenses and was to marry Maude in a few 
days. 

Still, one vague hope sustained her — Gilbert 
might come back — back once more to offer 
her his undying love and great devotion. Her 
great beauty and her unhappy life excited deep 
interest. A wealthy and brilliant young man 
called upon her and placed his fortune at her 
service, with a delicate hint that he was anxious 
to throw himself into the bargain. But Ida, 
with magnificent pride, which grief only exalted 
and intensified, firmly but gracefully refused all 
offers of pecuniary assistance. 


fortune’s wheel turns strangely. 173 

In her trouble the fine face of Mrs. Wedger, 
whom she had not seen since the day she 
brought Gilbert’s memoirs, rose before her, and 
one day she rode out to Cambridge, and, quietly 
going to Mrs. Wedger’s house, said briefly, — 

“ Madam, will you take me to board ? ” 

Before Ida had half finished her story the 
amiable and pretty former landlady of Gilbert 
was crying. 

“ You are welcome to board here, and I will 
try to be a mother to you — for, poor as I am, 
you will always be welcome.” 

“You are too young, dear lady, to be my 
mother,” said Ida, wiping away her tears, “ and 
I am too proud to remain here without paying 
my board.” 

“As you please,” said Mrs. Wedger, regard- 
ing her beautiful visitor with the utmost admir- 
ation. She conducted her upstairs. “ I must 
give you these rooms,” she said ; “ they are the 
ones Mr. Thorndyke occupied, and the only 
ones I have vacant at present.” 

Ida blushed and trembled. The idea of 


174 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


living in the same rooms formerly occupied by 
Gilbert was to her a strange sensation. 

“ I intend to write,” said the young authoress, 
“to write for my living, as I used to for my 
pleasure.” 

The next day found her hard at work, at the 
same desk where Gilbert had written such 
profound thoughts. She sat in the same chair 
that he sank into on the evening he received 
her letter. Strange world, this. 

While she was writing, Mrs. Wedger, so 
kind and thoughtful, entered the room and laid 
beside her a small blue velvet case. Ida opened 
it. It was a splendid daguerrotype of Gilbert. 
“It is for you,” she said, “do not refuse it,” 
and left the room. 

Ida started up with joy. She looked long 
and sadly on the noble, manly features of her 
lover, then kissed passionately the glass which 
covered it, murmuring, — 

“I am so glad to have his, for I know he took 
mine off the drawing-room table — for no one 
else wanted it.” 


fortune’s wheel turns strangely. 175 

What would poor Gilbert have given to have 
seen her then ! Everything he possessed or 
ever expected to possess. 

Thus Ida sits down to write while Gilbert is 
far away, intent on securing the fortune which 
is rightfully his. 

If he had only known, how quickly he would 
have left everything and started homewards ! 

But who is bold enough to arraign the 
unknown gods of Time ? Let the anarchs of 
eternity pass judgment on them ! 


176 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE FALSE WIFE. 

Gilbert’s return to his friends he repeated 
carefully what he had been told, and after 
a consultation all decided it best to start for 
Paris the next day, as action could not be taken 
too soon in the matter. 

The ex-beggar was much pleased at the kind 
manner in which he was treated by the rest, 
and often spoke his gratitude. Once he asked 
Gilbert if he always treated every one as well. 

“ I try to, for I never have and never shall 
respect the cruel laws of caste. In what is 
one man superior to another, unless he be 
more virtuous or more intelligent ? ” answered 
the manly man. 

In Paris they stop at the Hotel des Anglais, 
and the following day Gilbert and Royal ascer- 
tain Madame Thorndyke’s address, and in 


THE FALSE WIFE. 


1 77 


company with the wronged husband visit 
Monsieur Rondelle’s office — the great French 
authority on matters appertaining to probate 
affairs. After carefully hearing their story, and 
examining the proofs, he pronounces the case 
a most excellent one, but advises, if possible, a 
compromise. Acting under his advice, Gilbert 
and Edward Crosby present themselves at the 
woman’s house, Gilbert sending up one of 
Royal’s cards, fearing that otherwise he could 
not see her. 

In a little while he is shown up to her 
luxurious parlor and confronted by madame. 

“ Do you wish to see me ? ” she says, speak- 
ing between the puffs of a cigarette, while re- 
clining in a languid manner in a large red satin 
armchair. “ Take a chair, Monsieur Hall. 
Shall I ring for a glass of wine ? ” 

“No, thank you!” replied Gilbert coldly. 
“I am here on business, disagreeable business.” 

“ You ? On business ? ” The woman 
opened her eyes in astonishment, “I do not 
know you.” 


1 78 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

“ Perhaps not, but you are going to. Royal 
Hall is not my name. It is Gilbert Thorndyke, 
son of your supposed husband.” 

“ But I thought you dead,” stammered the 
woman, completely unnerved. 

“You are decidedly mistaken. I have come 
determined on obtaining my share of my 
father’s large estate.” 

“I do not fear you,” said the woman, begin- 
ning to recover her usual self-possession. “Do 
your worst. I was his legal wife, and, as such, 
by these laws inherit his property.” 

“ Ah, but you were not his wife.” 

“Prove it,” said the woman, beginning to 
become very much enraged. 

“ I will,” said Gilbert, stepping to the door 
and calling his companion, who promptly re- 
sponded, and in another minute was with 
them. 

“So, it’s you, you miserable dog?” and she 
works herself into a terrible rage, and calls 
them both some very hard names. 

They stand before her and take it all in 


THE FALSE WIFE. 1 79 

silence until she exhausts herself ; then Gilbert, 
starting forward a step, says, — 

“ These are my terms of settlement. The 
appraised value of this immense estate is ten 
million francs or thereabouts. I will settle for 
exactly one-half, otherwise I commence suit for 
the entire amount. I have made you a mag- 
nanimous offer. Refuse it at your peril. 
Should you decide to act wisely and accept, 
write me at Monsieur Rondelle’s office before 
Thursday noon. Good-day,” and the two men 
left her to her thoughts. 

Before evening the next day Gilbert receives 
by a messenger the following note : 

Paris, Jan. 17, 187-. 

Monsieur Thorndyke, — Your offer is accepted. I 
will meet you at your lawyer’s office to-morrow, at three. 

Josephine Thorndyke. 

Gilbert had won. He was not without his 
share of exultation, for he knew too well the 
annoyance poverty brings and the trials that 
the poor suffer. He had seen too much of life 
not to appreciate the power of gold. The next 


l80 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

day she kept her word, and was there ; but why 
go into all the details ? It was months before 
the entire matter was fully settled, and the one 
who was instrumental in Gilbert’s obtaining so 
much money was rewarded in such a substantial 
way that he could live thereafter in abundance. 
Gilbert wisely counselled him in regard to its 
investment and his habits, and had the satisfac- 
tion of seeing him well started on his new and 
now prosperous career before leaving France. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


181 


CHAPTER XIX. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


^/^BOUT a mile down the River Mersey from 
the Cunard dock in Liverpool lay the mag- 
nificent steamer Oregon, which met such a 
peculiar fate years afterwards. On the upper 
deck stand two men waving farewell to a 
third, who is on the little tender which brings 
the passengers down to the steamers of the 
Cunard line. The two men were Gilbert and 
Joe ; the third was Royal, who was to remain 
abroad. They were about leaving for New 
York. Nothing occurred worth mentioning 
until the third evening out, when the sea was 
as calm as a lake ; the dark sky was studded 
with golden stars ; the light of the brilliant 
moon seemed to throb with the waves ; strange 
shadows from swiftly passing clouds seemed to 
dance over the silent water while the figure of 


i 82 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


the stately steamer stood out in bold relief. 
There were not many passengers on board, and 
two of them were leaning over the side, watch- 
ing the trail of the silvery foam behind, when 
one of these men turned to his companion and 
said, — 

“ I have never known real peace of mind 
except when at sea, unless when a boy I used 
to wander up and down the beach, watching the 
waves as they rolled in at my feet.” 

He was Gilbert talking to Joe. 

Evenings, when all were asleep but the 
watch, Gilbert would remain on deck, seem- 
ingly to be studying the heavens. “ Every 
knot we run lessens the distance from my 
idol ! ” sighed the adventurer, leaning over the 
rail to the leeward and watching the phosphor- 
escent atmosphere on the water. “Will Fate 
ever permit me to see that beautiful girl again ? 
Yet, why am I so foolish as to wish only that 
which would increase my misery ? She cares 
nothing for me — and I, have I no will, no 
pride to live down my infatuation ? Is it possi- 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 83 

ble that Fate is so cruel as to leave her utterly 
indifferent to such love as I offer her ? ” 

And Gilbert, pacing the deck, repeated to 
himself, a hundred times, “ Idiot, she never 
loved you ; ” but a silent voice would whisper, 
“ She loves you, she loves you.” 

Time alone would reveal if the silent voice 
whispered correctly. 

When the voyage was half over, an incident 
occurred that cast a gloom over all present. 

One of the firemen died of apoplexy and was 
buried at sea in the early morning, before the 
passengers were astir. Gilbert and Joe wit- 
nessed the sad scene, for a burial at sea is 
indeed a most solemn affair. The body was 
put into a rough pine box, in which holes had 
been bored in order to sink it, and long after it 
was slid off the plank into the water our two 
friends could see it bobbing up and down far 
away on the waves. 

“ I have no pity for the dead/’ said Joe, 
“especially in this case, as there was no one 
dependent on him.” 


184 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


“ What a strange thing life is!” sighed Gil- 
bert. “ Monte Carlo, Paris, all seem to me a 
dream. There is only one thing real.” 

“ You mean Love ? ” 

“Yes, Love. If unsuccessful in my en- 
deavors the second time, farewell to all ! At 
the worst, even my enemies cannot deny that I 
have lived and died — a free man ! ” 

About a year after Gilbert’s departure from 
Cambridge, the New York fast express is roll- 
ing into the station of the Boston and Albany 
railroad on Kneeland Street, in Boston. 

In the Pullman car Waverly, two men are 
hurriedly gathering their baggage together, 
preparatory to leaving the car. They are 
bronzed and travel-stained, but we can easily 
recognize them. After leaving the train, Gil- 
bert stops to buy a copy of the Boston Herald , 
to read on his way to Cambridge. They 
enter a hack ; Joe to be left at Young’s, and 
Gilbert intending to go directly to Mrs. 
Wedger’s. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


185 


When comfortably seated, he opens his paper, 
and to his utter astonishment, in large head- 
lines, reads the following: — 

A DESPERATE COUNTERFEITER AND HIS 
WIFE CAPTURED. 

Supposed to be the Man Sought After by the 
Secret Service Officers. 

OVER $10,000 IN SPURIOUS MONEY FOUND IN HIS 
ROOM AND ON HIS PERSON. 

HIS WIFE ARRESTED AS AN ACCOMPLICE, BUT AFTER- 
WARDS ALLOWED TO DEPART. 

GREAT CREDIT DUE TO DETECTIVE BURNS. 

For over five years the country has been flooded with 
counterfeit money of all denominations, so well executed 
as to deceive any one save an expert. Although some of 
the finest detective skill in America has been brought to 
work on the case, the bold rascal has until to-day escaped 
detection, owing to the great care he has used in passing 
the spurious bills. About a week ago Detective Burns’s 
attention was called to a bill received by a friend of his 
through a ^veil-known man about town, by the name of 
Richard Arkwright. The bill was pronounced a counter- 
feit, and having the appearance of newness, the detective 
resolved to endeavor to trace it. Suspicion was fastened 
on Arkwright. He was arrested, searched, and bills of all 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


1 86 

denominations were discovered in a secret pocket of his 
coat. 

After great difficulty, an entrance was effected to his 

room, in a house owned by himself on D street, and 

then it was proven beyond all doubt that for years he 
had been carrying on his nefarious business. 

Everything of the best and most valuable make used 
in engraving, printing, etc., was found there, together 
with a large amount of counterfeit money nearly finished. 

His wife, after careful questioning, proved her inno- 
cence, and was permitted to leave the inspector’s office, 
almost heart-broken. She is said to be the daughter of 
the late Amos S. Dexter. The greatest sympathy is 
expressed for her in her deep trouble. 

Gilbert read and re-read the article. How 
much must have happened since he left. 
Richard Arkwright a counterfeiter ! Well ! he 
never liked the man. Amos Dexter must be 
dead, Maude married ; and where was Ida ? 
What had become of her ? Was she too 
married ? He would be patient and soon know 
all. 

To return to Ida. How had she fared all 
these long, weary months? She had worked, 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 1 87 

hoped, dreamed, and despaired, alone and in 
poverty. 

Pride alone sustained her. Mrs. Wedger 
kept her word, and her kindness and cheerful- 
ness did much to assuage Ida's trials. 

Mrs. Wedger scouted the idea that any 
accident had befallen Gilbert. He would return 
soon, rich and successful. Had he not said as 
much at parting? It was nothing strange that 
she had not heard from him, as he never was 
given to letter-writing. 

Ida wrote story after story, and sent them to 
various papers, some of which were accepted, 
but more refused as “not available.” 

Ida, who was very generous, and who could 
never listen to the story of a poor unfortunate 
without opening her purse, began to find her- 
self getting behindhand. She could not 
replace her dresses that were beginning to 
decidedly show signs of wear, or pay her board 
bill promptly. 

Things began to look dark and gloomy. Day 
by day she became more indifferent to her ap- 


1 88 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


pearance. How the poor girl suffered, — suf- 
fered as many more have, fighting the battle 
of life, and dying with the eternal watchword, 
“Victory or death, and even in death, victory.” 

“ I am not fit to struggle in this world,” sighed 
Ida. “ Its trials and perplexities are too much 
for my strength. I have stood great griefs, 
and borne them with fortitude, but these petty 
stings are more than I can endure. Let people 
say what they may, I feel that woman is in- 
tended to lean on man for strength, and that 
man’s noblest duty and mission in this world 
is to support and encourage her.” Then she 
fell to thinking of Gilbert, wondering many 
things. “ Oh, if I could only see him once 
again, how willingly I would die and be at 
rest !” then continuing to murmur, “Rest! — 
vain demand, there is no rest even in eternity ; 
but if there is no rest, there is happiness some- 
where, or Nature is herself a falsehood and a 
delusion.” 

At this moment she was interrupted in her 
meditations by a knock on the door. Rising 


HOMEWARD BOUND. 


89 


and opening the door, she was surprised to 
see her cousin Maude standing before her, 
whom she had not seen since her uncle’s 
funeral. 

“ Oh, Ida, have pity on me ; I am in terrible 
trouble ! ” gasped her visitor. 

Ida invited her to enter, and listened in a 
dazed way to the story she told of her hus- 
band’s arrest, as substantially told in the 
Herald. 

“ But I have more to tell you,” she continued. 
“ I have wronged you and Mr. Thorndyke be- 
yond all reparation, for I was deceiving you 
when, with Richard’s help, I made you think 
he was married. It was false. I loved him, 
and wanted him myself. A truer man I never 
knew. Can you ever forgive me ? ” and the 
unhappy woman threw her arms around Ida’s 
neck, and wept bitter tears of shame and 
remorse. 

“ I can forgive you,” answered Ida, “ but 
God alone knows the sorrow your heartless 
deception has caused me.” 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


190 

Just then a footstep was heard in the entry. 
The door was thrown open, and — Gilbert 
Thorndyke stood on the threshold. 

The gaze these two persons bent on one 
another may be half imagined, it can never be 
described. Ida is looking somewhat changed 
from the beautiful girl of former days. She 
is thinner and paler. The violet eyes look 
as if tears had dimmed their lustre, the fair 
rounded cheek has partially lost its delicate 
contour, and there is at times a suspicious 
quivering of the sweet lips, as though she had 
learned to subdue sorrow and tears. 

Each looked at the other, too amazed to 
speak, almost thinking they were beholding 
apparitions. 

Gilbert was the first to break the silence. 
His voice was low; his face, though pale, did 
not have a stern look. “ Why ! — Mrs. Wedger 
— said nothing about you. She told me to 
come to my old rooms — and I” — the re- 
turned traveller stopped, almost overcome by 
emotion. 


HOMEWARD BOUND. I9I 

“ I did — not — know — know ” — stammered 
the girl, trying to rise from her chair. 

“ Ida, my Ida ! ” exclaimed Gilbert, springing 
towards her and clasping his idol in his arms, 
and kissing her over and over again before 
she could resist, seeming not to notice Maude, 
who sat crouched in the corner. 

“ Gilbert — dear Gilbert ! ” said Ida, bursting 
into tears, and weeping long and joyously in 
the arms of her lover. 

“ She called me dear Gilbert,” murmured 
Gilbert in raptures. 

“ Mrs. Wedger always said you would re- 
turn.” 

“ Do we understand each other ? ” 

“Now and forever.” And thus lover and 
loved met again, — met, by some strange 
caprice of Destiny, on the very spot where 
Gilbert had received Ida’s note. 

We will leave them together, and draw the 
curtains around them. It had surely been a 
day of surprises. 


192 


GILBERT THORN DYKE. 


“Have you kept your word, Mr. Thorn- 
dyke ? ” asked Mrs. Wedger, when she had 
waited as long as her woman’s curiosity would 
permit. 

“ I have, and have returned a rich man, 
madam.” 

“ Do you really mean it ? ” asks Ida, who, not- 
withstanding her great joy, was still haunted 
by the fear of want. 

“ Seriously, we are rich beyond all want.” 

“ We ! ” said Ida. “ Oh, Gilbert ! what is 
money to us? Yet I am glad it is so, we 
have both suffered so much.” 

“ That is true. It is so strange I should find 
you here. About yourself — your uncle is 
dead?” 

“ My story can soon be told, but tell me 
yours first.” 

So, with Ida sitting near him, he related all 
the minute details of his long and eventful trip, 
with which the reader has already been made 
familiar, _ . . : . 


CONCLUSION. 


*93 


CHAPTER XX. 


CONCLUSION. 


JT was a beautiful day; such a perfect June 
day, people declared, had never been known 
in Boston, when, a week later, a young couple 
were walking up Commonwealth Avenue, so 
radiant with happiness that all who passed 
them turned to look back with involuntary 
admiration. 

They were Gilbert and Ida. 

“ After all,” said Gilbert thoughtfully, look- 
ing down into the beautiful blue eyes of his 
affianced, “ the reward of suffering is sometimes 
very great.” 

“ At least,” answered Ida, “ it teaches us to 
sympathize with all those who are suffering.” 

“But, to change the subject, when is the 
wedding day to be ? Royal cabled me from 


194 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


Liverpool that he would be here Monday, 
sure.” 

“Suppose, then, that we make it Wednes- 
day,” replied the prospective bride. 

“Very good, but you must stop smiling at 
me. It is too much for my philosophy,” said 
Gilbert, gazing enraptured at the remarkable 
beauty of his graceful companion. 

“You flatterer !” said Ida playfully. “And 
after our marriage where shall we go ?” 

“I propose that we go abroad, to be gone a 
year.” 

“ Charming ! I want to see everything.” 

“ I want to see nothing but yourself,” said 
Gilbert. 

“ There you are again flattering me.” 

“Of course; it is my duty to flatter.” 

Thus, in talking over their plans for the 
future, walking, riding, and enjoying themselves 
in various ways, the happy days glided swiftly 
past. Of Gilbert’s life I have little more to say, 
save that ambition stirred again within him, 
and a craving for hard work, that his faults and 


CONCLUSION. 


195 


follies in the past might be atoned for by 
worthy achievements in the future. Doubtless 
many have wondered who was the author of 
that profound and scholarly work, “ The Inves- 
tigation of the Heavenly Bodies.” Gilbert 
Thorndyke could easily answer that question 
were he disposed ; but not so, he prefers to 
remain incognito. 

I will leave for the readers who, like them, 
have loved and loved nobly, to imagine their 
great happiness. A few lines concerning the 
other characters may possibly interest the 
reader. 

Royal returned in ample time for the wed- 
ding, and officiated as the best man. “ You 
know,” he laughingly said to Gilbert, “ I 
always said it would turn out all right.” He is 
now married, and is very happy, spending his 
time between Boston and Paris. 

Joe is still with Gilbert, and few people 
imagine that the plain, quiet man who is so 
attentive to his master’s wants has been a 
passer of counterfeit money. 


196 GILBERT THORNDYKE. 

Richard Arkwright, the counterfeiter, alterer, 
and stock-speculator, was convicted of making 
and passing counterfeit money, and in spite of 
what all his friends and their political influence 
could do, was sentenced to fifteen years in the 
State Prison. Gilbert obtained his revenge in 
that unexpected way. Who will deny that 
those grand old words are true that say, “ The 
wages of sin is death ” ? Maude, his wife, with 
the balance of her husband’s property saved 
from the heavy expenses of his trials, removed 
to New York, where, according to the latest 
accounts, she was keeping a fashionable board- 
ing-house in Waverley Place. 

Mrs. Wedger, enriched by Gilbert’s gratitude, 
opened a large millinery establishment on 
Temple Place, Boston, and was very successful. 
Her store is very popular with the Mite of the 
city. She never loses an opportunity of re- 
lating to her friends the romance of her two 
former literary boarders : their troubles, their 
love, and ultimate happiness. She never 
fails once a month to write Gilbert and Ida 


CONCLUSION. 197 

a letter full of her kindest wishes and re- 
gards. 

Gilbert never met Mr. Hugh Riordan after 
the eventful evening in the restaurant, but 
heard through a third party that he finally suc- 
ceeded in obtaining a position as reporter on 
the Neiv York Tunes. 

Crooked Jim was injured in a bar-room 
quarrel, and died at the hospital after lingering 
a few hours in great agony. 


GILBERT THORNDYKE. 


198 


EPILOGUE. 


^LL my story has been told, and it is well, 
for I am now so weak that it has been with 
the utmost difficulty that I have dictated the 
last pages of this book. Nearly six weeks have 
elapsed since I wrote the first words of the 
prologue of this story, and to me, at least, it 
has proved a great satisfaction. 

In this narrative I have endeavored to give 
my readers a slight idea of the character 
and the unusual life of Gilbert Thorndyke. 
That such a character did exist to a certain 
extent in real life, is a fact, but the best of 
us would need the finishing touches of the 
romancer to appear attractive in the cold pages 
of print. 

Much more I might have written, but I have 


EPILOGUE. 


199 


written what I thought it best to write and 
what I thought I could write best, and now 
close these pages forever, believing that of 
men, as of nations, it can truly be said, “Happy 
are those who have no history.” 

Author of Gilbert Thorndyke. 








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